Code SM-One
by Phanfan925
Summary: An alternate timeline taking place at the end of Marvel's Spider-Man (PS4, 2018). After Spider-Man defeats Otto Octavius and delivers the antiserum, Sable International agents swoop in to claim the weakened wallcrawler. New Yorkers rally to have their hero returned from Oscorp, but can they succeed?
1. Code SM-One

**Summary: An alternate timeline taking place at the end of Marvel's Spider-Man (PS4, 2018). After Spider-Man defeats Otto Octavius and delivers the antiserum, Sable International agents swoop in to claim the weakened wallcrawler. New Yorkers rally to have their hero returned from Oscorp, but can they succeed?**

 **Let's see how this goes! Usually when a start a fanfiction I have things a little more plotted out, but the plot bunny for this first chapter and a general, overlying plan for an entire fic just wouldn't go away. I was initially given the idea by a piece of concept art showing Spidey at the mercy of Sable and her men, and also my own frustrating experiences of avoiding Sable patrols in-game haha. I'm still reading the prequel novel to the game** _ **"Hostile Takeover"**_ **, so a lot of Norman's motivations in here will be speculative as I don't have the full picture yet. This is an angst-ridden fic, but don't expect full-on whump because that's not how I roll. Review if you would like to see this continued, otherwise I might keep this as a one-shot. We'll see if my inspiration doesn't wane :0. If you enjoy what I'm writing feel free to check out my secondary Spider-Man fanfiction, a novelization that follows the career of Spider-Man 2099! Expect an update from that one soon.**

 **Rating: T (for explicit language, violence, and the future possibility of adult situations/references).**

 **This fanfiction will also be on AO3 under my pen name of "BrightBloo".**

 **Heads up: I use a varying amount of Canadian/British spellings; no they are not incorrect, and no I will not americanise/ze my writing to suit other people's fancies, so if that bothers you shoooo. Also, there are going to be spoilers from the starting sentence(s).**

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 **Code SM-One**

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Peter Parker, Spider-Man, sobbed over the still corpse of his Aunt May. The beep of her heart-monitor had long since stopped. For at least the last five minutes it'd been silenced forever, but Peter found himself quite unable to leave her side. For all intents and purposes, she'd been his mother, far more than that obscure, far-off figure that was the late Mary Fitzpatrick-Parker. Even when Uncle Ben was shot, there'd been a certain comfort in knowing that Aunt May would always be around, the resilient matriarch that was just too stubborn to die, or so it seemed.

He'd lost everybody. His entire family. He was the last of the Parkers. May had never got to see the grand-nieces and nephews she'd always wished for, or give a speech at his wedding ceremony. She would never see him finally prove successful at a career in science and validate her faith in him on that account. Never again could she create another batch of wheatcakes to be shared between the pair of them. He'd waited too long, on too many things, and now she was gone forever.

What felt like the thousandth sob tore its way out of Peter's throat. It was an ugly, pitiful sound. Like the hoarse wailing of some damned creature. His chest shook, wracked with shudders and keening noises that couldn't quite escape through his mouth. He tried to be quiet, and for the most part he succeeded. This was a public place, after all, as secluded as this particular area was. However, his discretion had limits. Luckily, it only drew the attention of his ex-turned-partner, Mary Jane Watson.

Mary Jane had left him alone some time ago, polite enough not to intrude on such a momentous and tragic event as the passing of a loved one. Nonetheless, May Parker had been an important and respected woman in her life, too. Because of that, there was a certain dread that came with investigating the source of Peter's sobs. There was the signature hush of death in the room that alerted MJ to what had occurred from the moment she entered the room. The sight of the antiserum and mask set to the side, the immobile body of May, it was enough to send her into a fresh set of tears. He'd made the right choice, and she was proud of him, but that didn't make it hurt any less.

Timid as a doe, the red-haired journalist stood beside her friend and rubbed circles in his back. Peter's senses had been set off upon her approach, so he wasn't surprised, just comforted by the company. Unable to hold the cold corpse any longer, he stood and slid his arms around MJ, resting his head over her shoulder and hiding his tear-stained face in her neck. She was the first to break the deathly silence.

"You going to be ok?"

"Yeah," he croaked.

This was what May would've wanted. In a way, she'd saved New York through her own sacrifice. All she would've had to do was say the word, and Peter would've given her the cure in a heartbeat. There was no way he could've resisted a death-bed plea like that, from his last remaining relative, no less. Wherever Uncle Ben was, whether it was the void of nonexistence, a random reincarnation, or some sort of restful paradise, Peter was sure that his surrogate parents would find each other again. Nothing could keep them apart in his mind.

Now Peter just had to pick up the pieces. His life wasn't even half over, the state of adulthood only barely begun. He had to keep living, for them, do their memory proud every day for the _rest_ of his days. He would start by giving the antiserum to Dr. Morgan Michaels to begin mass synthesis of a vaccine.

His mourning was interrupted by a loud crash from the front of the F.E.A.S.T. shelter. Peter stumbled back from MJ, spider-sense driving a shiver up his spine. Shouts rang out, and Peter unthinkingly snatched up his mask. He slipped it on just in time, as in the next few seconds a frazzled Morgan Michaels came charging into the office that had once been May Parker's. Eyes averted from the obvious body, the Doctor jabbed a finger at the red-and-blue-suited vigilante.

"You. Get out."

Peter was taken-aback by Michaels' sudden demand. It wasn't quite hostile, but it still left him confused and slightly hurt. What? Had he saved the good Doctor only to be sent away like a dog to the yard? "What? What did I d-"

"Sable agents," started Michaels shortly as way of explanation. He looked like he might say more, but MJ beat him to it.

"Oh God, someone must've left an anonymous tip!"

As soon as the news set in, Peter's blood went cold. Silver Sablinova had abandoned Norman's cause shortly after Peter's first "fight" with Octavius, if it could be called that, but her agents were another story entirely. They were firmly leashed by Norman, their principles dictated by their handsome payroll. The warrant for Spider-Man's arrest was still standing, and the commission and probable promotion that would accompany his capture was as ever an open opportunity.

Peter had no idea why Norman was gunning for him, though he had a semblance of possible motivations in his head. At first Peter had thought that his alter-ego was simply a scapegoat for Norman to escape blame. That was part of it, probably, but it didn't explain the sheer _ferocity_ that he'd channeled into Sable International to take him down. Sable and her men had been playing for keeps, when they should've been focusing on the prison break or even the plague. Rather than just tolerating their aggression, Norman appeared to approve of it, encourage it, even. Maybe some underlying resentment was the cause? More unnerving was the reminder that Norman Osborn had more than a passing interest in Peter's powers. It wasn't exactly a secret. He'd published papers under his own name on the subject, contributing to the myriads of articles that made up a thriving scientific community dedicated to "The Spider-Man Problem". MJ had mentioned some experimental spiders being bred in Osborn's penthouse lab, too.

"I'll stall them. You head out a back way." Dr. Michaels' voice shook Peter out of his thoughts. The man was gone in a heartbeat, jogging down the steps. Mary Jane was eyeing Peter with concern. For a second Peter considered switching identities, but there might not be time to find a pair of clothes before Sable's agents came barging in to find him half-dressed.

Under different circumstances, he might've engaged them. Compared to him they were chumps. As it was, though, these past days had taken their toll on the wallcrawler. First the Jonah-dubbed "Sinister Six" had handed him his ass and left him for dead in the East River. He'd received fourteen broken bones out of _that_ deal, most of them ribs. Then, he'd gone up against the Six one by one, sometimes in pairs. His first hostile encounter with Dr. Octavius and his arms had left him in an even worse state than before. Concussed, bleeding out... he very well could've died if not for Silver Sablinova, Dr. Michaels and the volunteers at F.E.A.S.T.. Not a few hours later and he'd been racing up the side of Oscorp Tower for a second showdown. In that one he'd succeeded in retrieving the GR-27 antiserum, but not without some grievous wounds. At first his new armour had protected him, but over the course of the battle it'd been stripped away, leaving him vulnerable. A piercing shoulder wound inflected by the claws of one of Octavius' tentacles was the worst of it. Since then it'd stopped gushing blood, congealing into an ugly, splattered circle on his suit, but Peter was still sore and light-headed because of it. It was a wonder he hadn't dropped dead from the sheer stress alone, even more so that his old college ulcer hadn't acted up at any point during the city-wide crisis.

"Peter," MJ hissed loudly. "You have to get the hell out of here."

"Don't have to tell me twice."

It was hard to be driven away from what remained of his Aunt so soon after she'd breathed her last, but there was nothing to be done about it. Before abandoning her altogether, Peter cast one last, doleful look at her body, his throat tightening. Without further ado, Peter clung to the wall and crawled out a window that Mary Jane had previously opened for him. Usually he was comfortable in this position, but right now it hurt to move like this. Gritting his teeth, Peter slipped outside and ducked around a corner. Inside, the shouts had reached new volumes. With his sensitive hearing, Peter was able to pick up some of the words.

" _You can't come in here-_!"

" _-Confiscate the cure-"_

 _"Leave him be!"_

 _"-go through me-!"_

He didn't have the luxury of truly processing what he heard, but what did enter his ears made Peter feel a little warm inside. The warmness was a welcome change to the temperature of May's cadaver, or the icy fear that'd rushed through him upon the agents' arrival.

"Time to go," Peter muttered to himself, hopping over to the adjacent building with some effort. Now that he was further away, he was able to make out the bigger picture. The F.E.A.S.T. shelter was surrounded by Sable forces. White, vehicle-mounted cannons scanned the skies, and a patrol was just now coming Peter's way to cover the wall he'd just escaped from. It was a wonder that they hadn't spotted him yet.

Swearing, Peter stealthily clambered up his current wall and snuck across the roof. Meanwhile, the Sable squadron was spreading out, probably aware that he'd been warned and was on his way out. Peter kept pace with them, but took pains to remain hidden. His spider-sense helped in that department, always warning him when he was about to be spotted, and so allowing him to move unseen. The crackle of a nearby radio halted Peter in his tracks. Shit they were _close_. Forty feet, tops.

" _No sign of target. Should we rendezvous at Bravo point?_ "

" _Negative. Continue search. This may be our last chance before he becomes a full-on_ martyr."

" _I don't know about you, but I want that bonus_ -"

Shaking his head, Peter continued onward. So lovely to be valued. It wasn't in the way he craved, but hey, at least Sable International appreciated him. Like a steak on a plate. Or a bone for a dog. _Focus, Pete_.

Whether it was from the blood loss or the bone-breaking exhaustion of the earlier fight, Peter failed to heed his spider-sense when it next screamed at him. The blue light of a pointer-dot-sight lined up with Peter's leg before it disappeared into some shadows. Regardless, it'd been enough to arouse the suspicions of the Sable agent holding the rifle. Voice low so as to not forewarn the skittish Spider-Man, the agent spoke into his com and advanced into the alleyway where he'd seen the sign of movement.

"I think I might have something. Converge on my location- WAIT! CODE SM-ONE I HAVE A SIGHTING."

The jig was up. In his injuries Peter had become clumsy. The Sable agent started to shoot at him, but Peter was already booking it away. For now he had to abandon the stealthy approach, at least until he was a safe distance from here. Now that there was no need to stay grounded, he didn't hesitate in loosing a webline, yanking himself off his feet with its elasticity once it was attached.

Soon, he was in the rhythm of swinging. There was a slight problem in that, though. During their battle Doctor Octopus had ruined Peter's webshooters and his supply of other gadgets. On the way to the shelter Peter had stopped by the lab to pick up a spare pair of shooters to make the journey go by twice as fast, but there was no telling how much web fluid he had left in the few spare cartridges he'd snatched. He'd been in a bit of a rush at the time. Consequently he would have to act preservatively with his webs if he wanted to stay ahead of the Sable strike force.

"CODE SM-ONE CODE SM-ONE," someone hollered in seamless repetition at his back. Peter was impressed that the guy hadn't twisted his tongue by now, saying it over and over like that. More voices took up the chant. An army of footsteps hit pavement, but Peter was high above them. He just had to watch out for their nasty stun guns, nets, and what Peter had come to call "shocky-hurty-capture-ropes". Just then Peter heard a combustive sound that he knew too well, and his hopes of an easy escape were promptly dashed.

 _Jetpack troopers. Great._

By now he'd left the main ground force in the dust, but _these_ guys were harder to shake. At any other point, Peter might've felt confident that he could lose them, but he wasn't exactly operating at peak performance. A half-dozen jetpack units drew up along either side of him. Feeling kind of playful in spite of the situation, Peter dropped down just as each group fired some of their capture-ropes. Consequently, about half of each group ended up entangled in their own traps. As professional as they were, they were still human. Peter, on the other hand, was something more.

"Whoops! Careful with your toys!" Peter quipped upon his next swing. Some Sable agents stayed behind to help deactivate the bonds holding their allies, but most resumed the pursuit, their resolve unbroken.

One of them called for Peter's surrender, his voice amplified. He was especially feisty with firing his weapon, and closing in faster than the rest. Peter's response was a firm, swinging kick to the man's side, his strength splintering the guy's armour. A cry rang out in the air before the Sable agent started to plummet, his jetpack also damaged by the attack. To prove he wasn't heartless, Peter hastily constructed a web-trampoline to catch the guy before he could hit the ground.

"See ya sweet cheeks!" Peter snickered, but it was forced. He was really only jesting out of habit. His quips were of a pathetic quality and rang hollow. May's passing was still weighing heavily on his heart.

After some confusion the jetpack battalion regrouped and unleashed a barrage of energy "bullets" at the retreating webslinger. The wall of gunfire was thick and dense, but since it was in clumps, Peter was able to dodge it relatively unscathed. Unfortunately, there was another surprise in store for the superhuman. A second detachment of jetpacked agents was incoming, straight ahead. Peter swerved mid-swing to avoid them, heading down a different street. Unknown to Peter, that was exactly the direction they wanted him to take. Up ahead, a trap laid in wait, set up by ground-based Sable troops while he was being chased in circles.

Time seemed to slow. Peter reacted to his spider-sense too-little-too-late. Around the corner was a wall of Sable towers and men, at least two dozen, weapons raised. Almost simultaneously, all of them unleashed electrified capture-ropes and nets. The spider-human was able to dodge most of them, but inevitably a few shots got lucky. Peter was good, but not _that_ good.

Unable to get completely clear, Peter yelped when a capture-rope nicked him in the ankle and immediately constricted around it. That first slip-up made him vulnerable to the next volley, which brought him down with a weighted net. Peter plummeted, crying out at the impact. He was pinned, swathed in metallic fibres that buzzed and crackled with energy. The weights weren't so heavy so as to bar him from moving altogether, but as soon as he struggled to his feet, they served to help tangle his limbs beneath him. In the end, Peter was only able to hobble a few feet before he was too impaired to remain standing.

Sable agents swooped down on him like scavenging vultures on a dying animal. Before Peter could tear the net and capture-rope apart and off of him, which he was in the process of doing, they unleashed a bombardment of stun shots and a few extra capture-ropes for good measure. These ones had tethers on the ends, which the agents were able to touch without the danger of being shocked themselves. They scooped the ends up and pulled, helping to keep Spider-Man immobile. Peter felt a pressure along his chest, neck, and splayed-out limbs when they did so.

"Get some cuffs over here!" someone clearly in charge ordered.

"Yes Captain-"

"And contact Mayor Osborn. Get us some extra support and a containment unit."

Peter's hearing was fading. There might've been other voices joining in on the conversation, even the shapes of civilians come to check out the scene, but they felt far away. It was getting harder and harder to move, to get his muscles to respond. At first he writhed like a downed bird, but eventually those struggles descended into defeated twitches and spasms as he lay on his side. Fuck, he was a failure. The only upside he could see to all of this was that May wouldn't have to see him like this. She must've worried so...

"Hey!" a rowdy, middle-aged man in a housecoat strode forward. He wasn't the only one. "What's going on here, assholes? Can't you see we're all trying to sleep?!"

"This is now a restricted area, leave now or we will be forced to put you under arrest," snarled a Sable agent.

"On whose say-so?" he spat in challenge, arms crossed. The rousted man got a seething, scathing response.

" _Mine and the Mayor's_."

Some curious citizens were gathering around, drawn by the commotion. It wouldn't be ideal for the agents' operations if they were to interfere, so the Captain discreetly called in for a second squad to detain any rabble-rousers that refused to vacate the premises. A lot of New York's populace was loyal to Spider-Man, which could prove a problem if word of his detainment became too public. First there would be angry New Yorkers, then there would be the press... Osborn would not be happy. The agents attempted to form a barrier between the civilians and their catch, but it was too late. As soon as the first person saw that Spider-Man was the one confined under the netting and cables, he yelled it aloud, confirming everyone else's worst suspicions.

"Oi! They got Spider-Man back there!"

"Leave Spidey alone you animals!" a woman shrieked. The cause was quickly taken up by the ever-growing mob. Feeling cornered, the Sable agents backed up and considered opening fire on the crowd. On that decision, they waited for the word given by either Osborn or their Captain.

"Yeah! He's the one trying to _help_ us!"

"I'll kick your ass, get the hell out of our way-!" Someone lunged for the net and got the butt of a gun in the face for his troubles.

A desperate wail rang out, "You can't do this! What about those Rykers escapees?"

"Spider-Man's the only one that protects us!"

A six-year old girl did not hesitate to get involved. Tucked in the skirts of her mother, she screamed, "WET SPIDEY GO!"

In contrast to the exclamations of support for Spider-Man, a few lone voices had less-than-savoury opinions that they expressed on the spot. Though they were mostly drowned out by the wave of outrage, they were still there, a piercing and powerful minority. Likely they were influenced by the angles taken by J. Jonah Jameson in his paper and later podcast, or else they had their own reasons for agreeing with what they saw. Spider-Man was far from being universally loved, after all.

"Good riddance-"

"Finally... took long enough, you incompetent-"

His patience waning, the Captain bellowed, "BACK, BACK!" His men surged forward, shoving citizens over like they were dominoes. Some spectators took that as a sign to get out of there, but others were just more incensed. Only the threat of being shot kept them at bay, however reluctantly. To the agents, they were like prowling wolves, ready to pounce on even the slightest opening.

"You can't do this! We have rights, and so does Spider-Man!" a college-aged man with glasses and a beanie said in outrage. "I don't remember voting for Osborn as my dictator!"

"Yeah! You can't just push us around! We're people!"

"-Free speech-!"

Reinforcements finally arrived just as things were about to come to a head. Vehicles pulled in front of Spider-Man, boxing him in and forcing the civvies to jump out of the way lest they be plowed under their massive tires. The people's protests were disdainfully ignored by the drivers and passengers emerging from their vehicles. A particularly large transport truck-and-trailer combo opened its back end to allow for loading. Inside was a case, made of see-through material that could pass for a type of glass. It took up the entire interior of the vehicle's cargo area.

Four of the assembled agents grabbed hold of one of the loose cords and started to pull Spider-Man up the ramp. He was limp, mostly unconscious, body dragging after his limbs. Just as the first dredges of the press started to swarm the scene, taking pictures and video where they could peer through the makeshift blockade, Spider-Man was already inside. One agent was in the middle of administering a proper tranquilizer to the prisoner. The mask was half-rolled up for this purpose. He was careful with the needle, not wanting to accidentally damage an artery. Peter felt only a prick, if anything. The onlookers lost sight of what was happening after that, as the back of the vehicle began to close...

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 **End of Chapter**

 **Did you enjoy this at all and would like to see this continue? Review! -heart-**


	2. Friend

**AN: Took a while but here's a longer chapter for y'all. I was pleasantly surprised by how many people liked that first chapter, so I decided to add on some more! Thank you so much to all those who favourited and followed, and ESPECIALLY to those who reviewed! Please take the time to do so if you haven't already, or do so again if you're enjoying the fic!  
**

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 **Friend**

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Mary Jane took care of all the arrangements. The call to the mortuary, transportation service, the formal confirmation of death by Dr. Michaels, everything. Peter's whereabouts were questioned more than once. As May's last living next-of-kin, he was expected to be present, but Mary Jane excused him on the basis of being out for more supplies with Miles. His absence demanded answers, so Mary Jane gave the best ones that she could.

Many F.E.A.S.T. occupants were distraught that May was gone, especially those who'd been at the location the longest. Towards the end, it'd been obvious that she was sick, but everyone had dared to hope she would pull through like she always did. A history of cardiovascular issues hadn't kept her down, but this plague... it was something else. Nasty. It got her good, like so many other elderly, infirmed or newly born New Yorkers that were too weak to fight it any longer. May would be missed among this little community that she and Li had built together, and for a long time, too.

If MJ were writing an article, then the mood at F.E.A.S.T. would be best described as "melancholic". There was a certain gloom over the place, even with the promise of a cure on the horizon. The immediate terror may have abated, but the crushing sense of hopelessness never quite subsided. New York had been on the brink of death, and everyone was feeling a lot closer to the edge after their frightening brush with mortality. Families huddled together, comforted in their shared survival. Life suddenly seemed too short to waste on being apart. It would be a while before things would go back to feeling _normal_ again.

A television was playing in the main room, switched to the main news channel for the city. People gathered around it like beggars, hungry for information. Mary Jane was among them, though a bit more off to the side than the rest. She already knew about the more recent news through her contacts at the bugle, but it was a substantially different experience _seeing_ it happen instead of hearing about it second hand.

 _"At approximately 3:21 am Spider-Man engaged the colloquially known "Doctor Octopus", now identified as Dr. Otto Octavius. Mayor Norman Osborn was almost killed prior to the encounter-"_

Helicopter footage of Peter's fight with his old boss, colleague, mentor, and friend took up the screen. Mary Jane watched it dispassionately, wincing where it was appropriate. Over the years she'd become somewhat desensitized to Peter's superheroing. After seeing him half-gutted by Fisk... well, there wasn't much that could top _that_. She never entirely stopped agonizing over it, though, just tried to convince herself that it wasn't so terrible, that Peter was better now than when he was just starting out, a naive teenager. That was the only way she could survive, or else the worry would just gnaw and gnaw at her until it ate her alive. The old trepidation was back, now, but not because of the brutal brawl she was currently watching unfold. No no, that bit was all in the past.

The battle was quite the spectacle, to say the least. All the displaced New Yorkers were thoroughly impressed, expressing their engrossment at different moments with aghast groans or awed sounds of approval. The bizarre combatants moved from the top of the tower to the side, the angles of their altercation not limited by the typical constraints of gravity. Octavius went tumbling, Spider-Man skidding vertically after him on his side before his uncanny ability to stick halted his descent. Through the darkness, drizzle, and limitations of the camera, a long streak of red was visible on the side of the tower. A little boy asked his mom, "what's that red stuff?". Mary Jane didn't hear her reply, if there was one.

 _"Reported sightings claim that Spider-Man obtained Oscorp's antiserum and brought it to the F.E.A.S.T. shelter in the Chinatown District-"_

"Hey that's me!" said one lady as they showed a snippet of an interview. It lasted only a few seconds, confirming what the anchor had previously paraphrased.

 _"What happened after is a bit unclear, but we are learning more and more as the situation develops. Mass-production of a cure is indeed underway. The first doses are already on their way to being done, and with additional supplementation by Oscorp we can expect more soon. The city and Oscorp guarantee that they will have stations set up for shots come this afternoon. As for Spider-Man..."_

A vertical, shaky playback started, almost definitely filmed with a smartphone. Mary Jane swallowed and closed her eyes. She'd seen gifs of this on twitter. They were already _gifing_ it. Was that even a word? Gifing? The point was, there was an alarming lack of respect given to what came next. Notwithstanding the posts of outrage that accompanied many of the gifs, and condemnations of Sable and Oscorp, there were also those who took a sadistic pleasure in what was about to be shown.

Through a high and dirtied window, the person behind the camera followed Spider-Man's movements. He was obviously hurt, rushed, or both. Gone were the acrobatic feats and flourishes that New Yorkers had come to expect from the webslinger. Instead the swings were brisk, swift, the equivalent of sprinting through air. Then it happened. The first electrified cable snapped around Spider-Man's ankle and knocked him off balance. He might've recovered, if not for the net that came next. There was a yell, muffled but audible through the window and over the heavy breathing of the cameraman. The phone didn't move fast enough to catch the moment of impact, but a second yell made no room for doubt as to when it happened.

That particular clip ended there. MJ had seen the full, unedited video, so she knew that the News station had cut out the cameraman running down the steps, presumably to get closer. If MJ was giving him the benefit of the doubt, then maybe he'd hoped to come to Spider-Man's aid. At worst, he was trying to get a better shot of the downed Spider-Man, a rarity for native New Yorkers to see and an instant hit for the internet.

At that point the broadcast switched to videos captured from the scene by their own camera crews. It was chaotic and hard to tell what was really going on. Ever since the footage came out, Mary Jane had analyzed it over and over, but even she was unsatisfied. It was evident that there were many people milling around in an aroused state, either excited or angered. Sometimes Mary Jane could see Spider-Man thrashing like a wounded animal, but just barely. Sable vehicles were the main obstacles to the camera lens, but whoever was behind the camera managed to get a shot before Spider-Man became obscured completely by a closing door. It chilled MJ every time.

One Sable agent crouched at Spider-Man's head, a syringe in hand, Spider-Man's neck exposed. The whole scene was in great contrast to the powerful, unyielding figure shrouded in dark armour and fighting in silhouette atop Oscorp. This Spider-Man was submissive, the Sable agents the victors. He was still, so very still, and if not for the shivers MJ might've assumed him dead or unconscious.

A shiver of her own caused MJ to look away. Right now she was numb, but before, when she first heard... Panic was the only word for it. _God_. God fucking damn it. Poor Peter. She should've done something. Hid him under the bed. _Anything_ would've been better than the outcome he got.

Well, she wasn't about to give up on him. She'd already started writing on her portable laptop, furiously typing up an article and an electronic letter for Norman Osborn. There was no way that man could get away with this, could justify it on any level. Super powers or no, she was going to fight this. If the power of her personal connections to the Osborn family through Harry didn't work, then she would rely on the power of the press, and if _that_ failed, she'd hire a fucking lawyer, organize a protest, break into Oscorp herself if at all possible, anything necessary to rescue her partner.

 _God, if only Harry were here, he could help. He wasn't the biggest Spider-Man "fan", but I_ know _he wouldn't approve of what his Dad is doing._

Just now, turned away from the TV, Mary Jane noticed Miles amidst the audience. He must've returned some time ago, not longer than five minutes or she would've seen him. Fists clenched around some bottles of antibiotics, the boy slowly met MJ's eyes. Somberly, she noticed the crestfallen sag of his shoulders, the redness in his eyes. A sort of understanding passed between the pair of them, a shared distress and resolve. Briefly and brusquely, Mary Jane jerked her head up at May's old office, beckoning for him to follow. He obliged, and the two made their way out of the packed common room and up the stairs. Once they were both inside she shut and locked the door behind them.

"Where's Peter?" Miles asked immediately, and for a moment Mary Jane suspected that he knew, felt the irrational flare of panic that she quickly quashed. It wasn't surprising that he asked. The question was perfectly reasonable.

Since the secret wasn't MJ's to tell, she lied smoothly, "Out and about, on the look out for more supplies. I got a call from him a few minutes ago, so he should be fine."

"Does he know...?"

"About May? Yeah... He was here. Had to leave. I think it was too hard to stay..."

"Yeah... t-that-" Discreet as could be, Miles rubbed at his eyes with his sleeve. "That makes sense. I just... I can't believe it, y'know? First Mrs. P, then Spider-Man... Just when things were looking up..."

 _They go to shit_ , Mary Jane mentally finished for him. Out loud, she said, "I'm going to get him out of there. Spider-Man, I mean. He went down fighting and so are we."

With some small satisfaction, Mary Jane saw the teenager's eyes light up. Miles unmistakably wanted to be involved, so Mary Jane predicted his next words before they even left his mouth. "I want in."

"Oh really? How do you propose to help?" Although Mary Jane was glad that the teenager was so eager to lend his services, he was also just that, a _teenager_. He didn't have any sway with the Mayor or with a paper, and he certainly couldn't go sneaking into Oscorp or Osborne's apartment as she had done. That whole adventure had been hard enough with _one_ person, and at the end she'd been detected anyways. If Miles tagged along and got caught, then the worst case scenario was that he could be _killed_ by trigger happy Sable agents.

"I could, well-" Face pained, Miles trailed off, as if unsure of how to vocalize his thoughts. Eventually he finished, but it was not with the words he had originally planned to use. "...Organize a protest?"

"You _know_ what happens to people who protest against Sable. Osborn gives them too much leash, though I'd _love_ to see him justify their behaviour and his martial-law-tactics now that things are getting back to normal again."

"That's a risk most people will be willing to take anyways."

"What would your Mom think about it?"

Shuffling his feet uncomfortably, Miles avoided the question with a change in topic. "Look, Mary Jane, there's something else I need to tell you. It's pretty important, and I'm not sure how to explain it, but-"

Before Miles could continue, Mary Jane's cellphone abruptly went off, buzzing in her back pocket. Her heart in her throat and her hands shaking, she slowly pulled it out. Her first instinct was to hope it was Pete, that he still had service, that his cellphone wasn't confiscated, that it still had charge. It was a long shot, but all she wanted was reassurance; a text telling her he was ok, that he'd escaped, given them the slip, _something._

The message sender was Joe "Robbie" Robertson, her editor and a longtime friend of both her and Peter. It was short, blunt, useful, and to the point, but witty too, just like Robbie. When Mary Jane got a text from Robbie, she could usually either expect a good-natured scolding or a tip that he was simply passing along. This time it was the latter. A movement behind MJ alerted her to Miles craning his head over his shoulder to read along with her.

' _Watson. Thought you should know that a Sable squadron is being held up by police at -embedded address-. Pretty sure they have our 'itsy-bitsy' friend. -embedded link- There's an Oscorp compound nearby. Lowkey. Could be where they plan to hold him. Check it out. -Robbie'_

" _Our_?" Mary Jane asked aloud.

* * *

 **SpiderNerdArmy:** Just heard the news. I'm shook. **#downwithsable #RESIST  
**

 **Reply from ESUBoo:** I know. Honestly in shock.

 **Reply from SuperPam:** Wtf is shook.

* * *

Quite by chance, Yuri's path had crossed with the Sable squad. Her friend Terri, a fellow officer on the force, had first told her of a sighting on the Upper West Side. Then, after some tracking, she'd relayed a likely route that they were taking. With what little time Yuri had, she'd organized a barricade with what officers were healthy and willing enough to volunteer. Yuri herself was still sick, though she had high hopes for the vaccine that was to be available the following morning. Normally she would be with her ailing mother right now, but this... this was more important.

In the past, Yuri had always depended on Spider-Man's ability to be a big boy and stay one step ahead of Sablinova and her agents, since she couldn't count on being able to bail him out if he was in custody. Well, she was trying now, though her hopes weren't that high. The stakes had changed the moment he got himself captured. It wasn't like it was her problem, let alone her job to look after him, but a part of her felt like it was her responsibility to at least make an attempt.

 _"Thanks for taking care of me by the way..."_

Yuri shook her head and brushed aside the memory of his voice. That night after the prison and plague outbreak he'd decided to stage a little breakout himself, sneaking out of the hospital right under the nurses' noses. At first Yuri had been mildly pissed when she heard, but that gave way to concern, then resignation when she called him. He'd spoken so slowly, breathlessly, like he was half-dead. After that he seemed much more mortal. For the first time since Yuri had established a permanent contact-correspondence with the vigilante, she'd actually thought he might die or get captured before this was all over. God did she hate being right.

The barricade was flimsy, made up of only a couple of flashing cars for the bulk of it, and supplemented by a few fences strewn about. Still, it was enough to block off the road and put the Sable caravan to a screeching halt. Another car pulled up behind them to block their means of backing out, boxing them in. Even with their faces obscured by visors, Yuri could tell from the first agent to leave his vehicle that they were _not_ pleased to have been stopped. Yuri swallowed down a cough and some blood, forcing herself to stand upright as she faced them. Beside Yuri, a cadet named Frank tried to cease his tremblings, and when that didn't work he tried to cover them up by crossing his arms, as if cold.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" one agent asked, clearly out of turn as the Captain shoved past him.

"What's the meaning of this? We work with the police. We're on a patrol and you've interrupted us. I hope you have a good reason," growled the accented Captain darkly. Though his words were more civil than his comrade's, they were tainted by a passive-aggressiveness that promised a million hurts and inconveniences. It was a tone that seemed to say: _"if you do not fall in line, I will be the biggest pain in your ass ever"_.

Unphased by now of Sable agents' intimidation tactics, Yuri replied, "A patrol? With five trucks? You've got to be shitting me. How gullible do you think we are?"

"Yeah, what you got in there?" piped up Caleb, a Corporal who for the time being had avoided all symptoms associated with the advanced stages of Devil's Breath.

Yuri could practically _feel_ the Sable Captain's eyes narrowing. "That's the Mayor's business. It doesn't concern you."

An unexpected _boom_ silenced the entirety of the present law enforcement personnel all at once, Sable and NYPD alike. Shaken by the sound, Yuri cast her eyes over the Sable Captain's shoulder to see the biggest truck suddenly shudder, accompanied by another _boom_. A dent appeared in the metal exterior of the backend storage compartment, small but impressive considering what those walls were made of. Yuri felt Terri jolt beside her, and some Sable people flinched from the fright of the occurrence. The episode wasn't over yet, though. What started as a long, low, and quiet creaking, gradually grew into a high-pitched cacophony. As the creaking hit its peak, the white vehicle slowly started to keel over. It was at that moment that the Sable agents regained enough of their sense and composure to swarm around it, propping its sides up to keep it from crashing and scrambling for their weapons.

"Shit," Frank breathed. "That's him isn't it?"

As someone who'd seen Spider-Man in action more times than most could claim the pleasure, Yuri answered, "No doubt."

The cops she had with her buzzed with conversation behind her. Each voice and proposal was a little different in their reaction to this scene. There was awe, antipathy, anticipation, agitation, anxiety, apprehension, and aggression. Best described, her coworkers were in a storm of emotion. Snippets of scrambled arguments made it to Yuri's ear, adding to her own confusion.

"Should we go help him?"

"How, Caleb? Shoot them?" said a different officer, David, scornfully. "We get into a firefight with Sable and they'll slaughter us. Their weapons are like nothing I've ever seen before. Freaky science fiction shit."

"Well we can't just do nothing."

"Why not? We're not doing nothing, anyhow. I agreed to help stop Sable from dropping the Spider off at wherever they're headed, to try and work out a peaceful solution, but that's _it_. I am _not_ risking my life for him. He can take care of himself."

"David is right. We've done enough by stalling them, more than anyone expected of us with the force in the state that it is. Look, I can see some reporters already coming this way. Media coverage will help his cause."

"Spider-Man is a damn hero. He saved my little girl by getting that anti-serum."

"I'm not saying I'm not grateful, Terri, but if we go anywhere near that... animal, well, in that state he might put a dent in _us_."

"Morgan has a point. Besides, Terri, are you really going to die for him when your daughter needs you?"

"Shut up!" cried Yuri, and everyone quieted. The plague and pandemonium of past days had made Yuri more of a leader amongst her peers. She'd been the last to give up, and was known to be a close confidant of Spider-Man, so that earned her a place of respect exclusive from her rank. Furthermore, this makeshift mission was her idea, under her terms, and under her indirect and unsaid leadership. They waited on her word with baited breath, but Yuri didn't know _what_ to tell them. Could she really ask these people to risk their lives, just to give Spider-Man a distraction that may prove unproductive?

Her heart clenched when she saw the Sable Captain calmly poke a syringe-and-cylinder shaped gas dispenser into the gap of the vehicle's cargo hold. A gasmask covered his chin as a safety precaution. As the attached canister emptied its contents, the erratic shifts and pitches of the automobile began to abate. At last, they'd subsided into stillness once more. She gulped and clenched a fist around the handle of her pistol, infuriated by the sight. Should she really just give up on this stupid crusade until a better opportunity presented itself? God, why couldn't someone make this decision for her? In that way her guilt might be lessened, at least, when she inevitably made either choice.

The personal, portable radio phone that Yuri kept in her breast pocket suddenly came to life. At first all she managed to catch were the words "Watanabe", "don't", and "down", and a code that started with "10", though she clearly recognized the crisp vocal chords of the Chief. When there was no immediate response, the Chief repeated himself. She pulled it out so as to better hear it, and this time the second message was audible, no longer muffled by the material of her jacket.

" _10-19._ _Watanabe, if you still want a job tomorrow, you'll stand down right now,_ " Chief's stern voice crackled through her radio, though it sounded reluctant. Of course, Yuri may have been imagining or misperceiving that last bit. His timely commands were puzzling to Yuri, since she had not reported her current whereabouts or actions for fear of a situation just like this. Being forced to choose between her morals and her childhood dream of being a police officer, now realized after years of brutal schooling, was a nightmare she dared not consider.

"How the hell-"

" _Frank told me everything_."

Fast enough to get whiplash, Yuri whipped her head around to shoot Frank a dirty look. The younger man had scurried out of sight to make his call, hidden half-ducked behind a cruiser. To his credit, Frank tried to look guilty as he stuffed his phone out of sight, as though he hoped his contrite countenance might appease Yuri. When the ferocity of her gaze didn't wane or waver, he resorted to more desperate measures. Frank, tattle-tale that he was, gulped into his radio, "She's glaring at me, Chief."

" _For God's sake Yuri don't act so surprised. I would've found out soon anyway. It's starting to show up on some of the social medias. You've made a scene, and a real mess for yourself._ "

"Well what was I supposed to do?" she snapped, forgetting her rank and sense of discretion for a second.

" _I know you've got a soft spot for Spider-Man, but this is beyond your jurisdiction, Watanabe. Goes all the way up to the Mayor's office, and maybe higher, if rumours are to be believed. It's_ big, _bigger than all of us. From now on until I get things a little more figured out, Spider-Man is off limits_ ," for this last sentence the Chief broadcasted more generally, addressing anyone in range of their radios.

"But Chief-" The stupefied female detective scrambled for words but could find none that would fully express her revulsion.

" _You're a good cop, Yuri_ ," Chief spoke softly. " _But there's nothing you can do for him now, and you'd be less help if you were fired from the force. Go home, get some rest, make sure your Mom gets her shot tomorrow._ "

Not into her radio, but to herself, Yuri muttered, "I don't believe that."

A sliver of her psyche concurred with Chief's cold rationality. The other part of her felt sick. In all likelihood his intentions were innocent enough. Chief was probably just trying to protect her position in the police department from an attack by Osborn. Spider-Man was still technically, legally a fugitive and vigilante, just as Norman Osborn was the Mayor. As much as she hated to admit it, the Chief had a point. For now at least, the law wasn't on Yuri's side...

* * *

 **DanielleP:** Saw this big showdown with Sable and NYPD. What a world we live in.

 **Reply from AWSMSCE:** Turned out pretty anticlimatic tho.

 **Tia09: NYCWallCrawler** You ok? **NYCWallcrawler NYCWallcrawler**

 **Reply from Michelle_W:** No, no he is not, and you only need to at/tag once.

* * *

Out of breath, Mary Jane made a bounding b-line for the one cop she recognized. The Japanese-American woman was casual-clothed, wearing a black leather jacket over a button-up shirt. She seemed weak, sagging where she stood, each step precarious. There was a pale pallor about her skin and an occasional, rattling cough in her throat that screamed of Devil's Breath symptoms. If MJ remembered right, she was a lieutenant, or maybe a Captain, one of the two. She was pretty sure Peter had said she got promoted a while back. Yuri Watanabe didn't know MJ, but MJ knew her, or more accurately _of_ her.

The second she'd registered Robbie's text, Mary Jane had rushed to the right address. She'd left Miles in charge of the F.E.A.S.T. shelter in spite of his pleas to come along. Someone had to stay with F.E.A.S.T., and MJ had promised Pete that they would take care of that part for him. Now that May was a missing hand, and with the place so crowded, the shelter needed all the help it could get. Besides, she didn't need Miles tagging along on what was not only her profession, but also a deeply personal matter.

Peter had been here, perhaps but mere moments before, but MJ's little car had run out of gas a block before her destination. By now most gas stations in the city had closed down, abandoned by their paranoid or plague-stricken employees and forgotten by management. She hadn't filled up the tank in over a week. The herds of boisterous taxi cabs that usually populated the city had all but disappeared, leaving the streets empty and eerie. Everything had conspired against Mary Jane to keep her from making it there on time. It killed her to know that she'd been so close, and at the same time so far.

Robbie's tip had given her a head start, but the F.E.A.S.T. shelter was still a ways away from the Upper West Side. Other reporters had been more lucky than she, and had beat her to the scene. Like her, they were intent on trying to wring information out of the NYPD, bustling around them with microphones, penpads, and cameras. Out of all the industries in New York that'd been crippled by the terrorism, sickness, and convicts, the News outlets had stayed strong. They'd thrived, even, essentially selling the sensationalized details of New York's plight to the outside world for profit. And now that the apocalypse seemed even more distant with recovered cure, their zeal had only blossomed. Spider-Man was the next story to sell, now more than ever. Intermingled among them were civilians, on their own quests for scoops to spread on social media.

"Captain Watanabe! Wait!"

At first the officer pointedly ignored her, but MJ pursued and persevered, calling the woman's name all the while. Some disgruntled camera men parted for her and left a path open for just a moment. She surged forward, dodging another cop that tried to intercept her as she came closer. At last she had access to Watanabe, and she did not look happy. 'Pissed' was more of an appropriate word, though Mary Jane didn't plan to include that in anything she wrote.

"Captain Watanabe, please, I'm with the Bugle-"

"No reporters, please."

"Please, you must have something to say about all this."

"I really don't."

Desperate times called for desperate measures. MJ's voice dropped, below the threshold of noise generated by the other, less bold journalists and shutterbugs. Barely loud enough for even Yuri's ears, she said, "I know Spider- _Cop_. Personally. Please. I need to know what happened here."

Yes, she would probably publish what she could dig up, since that was her job and her one way of safely helping, but on another level Mary Jane was _terrified_. Peter had been taken away, and would be away for God-knows-how-long. MJ didn't intend to just let Osborn have him, but a part of her was starved for information. Was Peter alive? Had Yuri seen him? What did the Sable agents say? Was it possible that they might've let something slip? So many questions and not enough answers to settle the high pace of her heart or the pressure in her blood.

Yuri froze in place, a statue surrounded by the blinking lights of police cruisers and the distant flashes of cameras. Ever so slowly her eyes narrowed into slits. Mary Jane's career had taught her through experience how to not squirm under such a scrutinizing stare, but the urge was still there. Then, Yuri started to nod, as if confirming to herself something she already knew. Encouraged and unnerved by this, Mary Jane spoke again.

"He's my friend too, please..."

"Oh alright, come with me to my car and we'll talk."

What Mary Jane didn't notice as she followed the detective and Captain was a small figure watching her from the side of an alleyway wall. In fact, nobody noticed Miles Morales, so focused were they on the dispersing police barricade. Not when he climbed higher, or clumsily scurried out of sight did he draw their eyes, and that was just the way he liked it.

* * *

 **Whew there you go. Decided to replace dividing lines with little fake-Twitter/forums inserts.** **The "at" symbol isn't allowed on the site unfortunately.**

 **Once again, don't be afraid to leave a review! I really appreciate them -heart-**


	3. Power

**AN: This is for everyone who reviewed! Thank you for the kind feedback. I was dragging my feet on this chapter a lot but your encouragement got me over that hump.  
**

* * *

 **Power  
**

* * *

"You're the one that interviewed Officer Davis, right?"

"That's me."

Yuri Watanabe leaned back into the driver's seat with a sigh, tapping her fingers on the rim of the steering wheel. Something stirred beneath the surface of her skin... grief, maybe. In either case, the confirmation of MJ's identity as the honest author of the two Bugle pieces on Jefferson Davis, one of them a tribute obituary, put Watanabe more at ease. MJ sensed a growing trust and respect between the two of them, tentative as it was at present.

"I'm not going to ask how you know Spider-Man. I have my own guesses but it's probably best if I don't know."

"Right..." readily agreed Mary Jane.

"I also want to just say that I'm sorry. This whole sting-road-block-operation designed to catch Sable was useless. I should've known that." In a rare show of raw, unfiltered emotion, Yuri slowly rested her forehead against the wheel as they pointlessly waited for the lights to turn green. They were the only ones idling on the entire block, but law-abiding habits were apparently hard to break. MJ half-considered awkwardly patting the older woman on the back, but decided against it.

"Don't say that. It wasn't entirely useless. I'm sorry for a lot of things in all this, too. It's a shit show, and it's only going to end when the quarantine is over and enough people appeal to the higher governments or superhero groups to get Norman in check. Let's just hope he doesn't announce any delays in the antiserum production or stall in the distribution of the vaccine to buy himself more time."

Yuri sat up abruptly, stiff as a corpse. It was obvious that she was sick herself, but her concern was extended beyond herself. MJ wondered if the woman had any family members that were also sick; maybe an older relative or a young child in the family. Statistically it was highly probable. "You think he could actually do that?" she said, voice coming out as a cough.

"I know Norman personally, too. At first I didn't think he was capable of many things, but now... I'm wondering if I ever actually knew the man at all."

"God damn it. He won't get away with this."

"Norman has a habit of getting off scot-free, actually. This fiasco with the Sinister Six and the Devil's Breath was just his sins finally catching up with him," MJ told Yuri vaguely. Puzzled, the cop gave MJ an odd look, but she didn't elaborate further. There was no need to get into the details, not right now. Luckily she still had the saved file on the "Martin Li incident", and she planned to expose Norman with everything she had, especially now that the stakes were so raised. She let that sink in before speaking some more, dispirited voice dropping into despair.

"This is why we need more mutant protection laws. People like Spider-Man... they're utterly unprotected if something like this happens, _especially_ if they have a secret identity to protect. He may or may not be X-gene positive, but those sort of caveats won't matter to the lawyers."

"I never really thought about that stuff, so long as mutants or powered-people didn't storm around in my city, but in retrospect I guess you're right."

This wasn't helping Peter, bringing herself down at the thought of Osborn's political-financial power and the corrupt laws that had yet to catch up with many modern sensibilities. Pulling herself together, MJ clumsily entered her reporter mode, numbing her crestfallen thoughts for the time being. "Enough about that. I need you to tell me what happened back there with Sable's people, and what you plan to do next. Don't leave a thing out."

"That's a very loaded question," slowly said Yuri, swallowing. "Like I said, we wanted to stop Sable before they got to wherever they were going. That's all my group really decided on, truthfully. It was a last-minute labour and we didn't have anything planned out beyond that. It all caught up with us when the agents got distracted. When we got to the crossroads of what to do next, we couldn't agree on anything. A firefight in the middle of a residential street certainly wasn't ideal, but we couldn't see any other way besides backing off. Before I could whip them into an action either way, my superior made me drop everything. I'm supposed to be heading back to the station, actually, but a little car-ride-interview along the way wasn't in the stipulations. What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

"Why did the agents get distracted?" MJ pressed.

"Spider-Man was trying to escape. I'm always impressed by that guy's fortitude. After all those supervillains, and even through the _gas_ , he was still fighting..."

Mary Jane felt sick.

* * *

 **StarbuckzAddict:** I'm just gonna say it: I still believe Sable International is useful. Fight me.

 **Reply from F_Thompson:** Ok

 **Reply from F_Thompson:** **This post has been removed.**

 **Reply from RaulPowell:** Seconded. Sable isn't as bad as people say.

* * *

Hours later, Norman Osborn at last made his official address to the city as its mayor, right on the steps of city hall. There was still a stain there, a scourge scorched onto the steps from the explosions that had rendered bodies into inanimate half-things. One could almost imagine that some of the blackened scars were the shadows of doomed people, forever haunting the place of their demise. The site of such tragedy seemed fitting for the mayor's speech, and Osborn was nothing if not a master manipulator.

"As the sun dawns on this city, and as vaccination stations are being set up at checkpoints even as we speak, I come to you as your mayor to speak honestly on the events that have passed. Nobody could be more traumatized by the tragic terrorist acts more than I, a target and victim of one myself by Martin Li and the man known as Dr. Otto Octavius. At the same time, I also recognize the role I might have played in enraging these irrational people into a frenzy. I may not be at fault, but I accept all responsibility."

"Norman Osborn." A blond reporter on tip-toes was the first to make an attempt at information gathering. "Will you be stepping down as mayor of New York City?"

"That remains to be seen. If that is what the people want, then perhaps. Probably soon." Osborn's voice oozed with regret, and under that, reluctance.

A more abrasive newsperson took the opportunity to raise his booming voice over the rest of the crowd and put forth the more difficult questions. "What about the rumours that you're keeping Spider-Man?" This initial question was like the key to the floodgate, unlocking a river of similar inquiries. Viewers and readers wanted to know about Spider-Man, and Spider-Man was what they would get.

"Keeping is not the word I would use."

"Well what else would you call it then?" spat a woman in challenge. "What is he some sort of pet to you?"

"We have confirmed that Sable International had Spider-Man in their custody, and that they used extreme measures-"

Calmly speaking, Norman disclaimed, "I do not control Sable or her team."

"But you're the one who put out the arrest warrant and set Sable on Spider-Man like a pack of hounds," accused someone near the front.

"Please, let's not use sensationalist language. Yes, I did what you say, but I do not condone the means taken to secure Spider-Man. I know New Yorkers are a sentimental people, and I sympathize with that. I myself am quite sentimental, especially when it comes to my city and my son. However, let us not be too clouded by Spider-Man's recent heroics to not recognize that he is still a criminal that needs to be questioned."

"Isn't that the police's job?"

"The police are too soft on the man, as today's breach of conduct by a splinter group proves. We've known this for a while, so I'm not surprised. Besides, my goal in removing Spider-Man from the streets is not strictly limited to his questionable relationship with the law and involvement with the Devil's Breath incident."

A collective breath escaped everyone watching and listening. They seemed to lean forward as one, like gulls clustered around a clam, waiting for it to open and present its juicy contents. This was what they'd been waiting for, and they hadn't needed to build up to it, wring it out of the mayor, or anything. Norman was apparently about to confess his motives himself, unprompted.

"For some time now my company has had a vested interest in Spider-Man..."

This wasn't a lie. Mutants were on the rise when it came to naturally occurring births, but they were still a small minority, and their powers were nigh-impossible to replicate. Most people even refused to acknowledge that they existed, so scarce or otherwise concealed was their population. Spider-Man, though... the New York-specific superhero had always intrigued Norman to the point of a hidden obsession. There was something special about Spider-Man. For one, his closely guarded civilian identity, if he had one at all, made him easy pickings compared to the FF or the Avengers. Nor did he have a protective group syndicate like the mysterious X-Men. He wasn't just a _man_ with extraordinary abilities, either. The animal nature of his superhero persona went deeper than a cosmetic imitation. Norman had all reason to suspect that under the costume and the gadgets, he was dealing with an actual cross-species person. Such a thing should be impossible, but ever since that possibility had entered Norman's head, he'd been obsessed with having the specimen for himself to study, or replicating it for himself in another subject when that failed.

"We believe that Spider-Man's unique biology, not limited to his observed rate of healing, calculated endurance, and a suspected sixth sense would prove invaluable to not only the military, but ordinary people like you or I... in limited components, of course. Let us not mince words: Spider-Man is not human, and thus we should not seek to completely recreate him lest we end up with something even more abnormal," Norman paused for effect. For once all the reporters were speechless, waiting on his next word with bated breath. The mayor was spilling his guts, and they weren't about to stop him.

"The United States government will back me on this. I assure you that Spider-Man will be treated as humanely as he is entitled. I plan to release our findings to the public every step of the way, to be as honest and outspoken about his stay at Oscorp as possible."

"Are you proposing-"

"Please, let me finish," interrupted Osborn tiredly, shutting down an overeager rookie reporter. "As I said, I'm sorry that things turned out the way they did, but the one good that can come out of it, for all of us, is this. Spider-Man wants to help the city? Then why doesn't he donate himself to the cause of understanding his powers? The healing factor alone could cut recovery times down to half, if not more, of the time required in serious injuries. Imagine soldiers able to dodge bullets, to use the same defensive and nonlethal techniques that _he_ uses on criminals. Casualties on _both_ sides could go down exponentially." Another pause, but not a particularly long one. "I will repeat that I do not condone the actions of our hired Sable agents throughout this series of catastrophes, and I can assure you that the teams that took their aggression out on civilians _will_ be punished."

It wasn't hard to doubt the legitimacy of that claim. Sable agents wore visors for a reason, and it wasn't just for protection. They concealed their faces, made them anonymous, and thus unaccountable for their actions. In a few days Osborn could declare that he'd taken disciplinary steps and no one would know the difference. Murmuring spread like a wildfire throughout the multitude, and a small smile slithered onto Osborn's face. He'd caught their attention; he'd earn their trust later.

"Now, are there any more questions?"

* * *

 **Eyes0Pen:** Anyone else find that conference to be hella shady? **  
**

 **Reply from DirkMaldonado:** No kidding. Osborn slimy af.

 **JesusSwanson:** I don't care how many apologies Osborn gives. His little science experiment killed my son.

* * *

Peter woke up to white. The world was blank, bright, and it _burned_. With a squinty grimace Peter sat upright, whining whilst his eyes adjusted. Eventually his vision returned to working order, and he was able to scan his surroundings.

There wasn't much to see. He was in a large room, approximately twenty-eight-by-eighteen feet. Towering over him were tall white walls. In each corner there sat a small, swivelling camera. A bed and a somewhat-sheltered, set-aside bathroom space broke up the emptiness, but besides that it was barren, like some sort of high-ceilinged cavern. Not _everything_ was white, per se. Above the contours of a massive, camouflaged entryway, there was a blinking panel. It reminded Peter of a traffic control light, flashing different colours. Red, blue, white, and green were its settings. Right now it was firmly fixated on blue. Peter briefly pondered on the purpose of it before panic began to set in.

The memories were rushing back like a waterfall. Aunt May, Sable agents, a prick on his neck, struggling to break glass and steel, a sweet smell, sleeping... Unthinkingly Peter sprang onto a nearby wall, ricocheted off it when it didn't yield, and ended up huddled in an upper corner, palms plastered to the walls and chest heaving. Hands shaking, he felt along his face and was comforted to find that his mask was still in place, undisturbed. Who knew if a Sable agent had snuck a peak or not, but for now he couldn't be bothered to worry about paranoid assumptions like that. His identity as Peter Parker was preserved... probably. But for how long? He was at his captor's mercy.

He stayed in that spot, where it felt safest. The room was so empty, so exposed. The persistent itch of his spider-sense told him that the cameras were on him constantly. There were no visible windows, but Peter was still being watched by a hawk, if not by human eyes then by computers. For all he knew there might be windows after all, only they were one-way. Paranoia mounting, Peter entertained the idea of making himself a webcocoon, just to shield himself from that prying insecurity that came from being spied on and recorded. _Stop_ , he scolded himself, swiftly shutting down and shaking off that thought. He still had his webshooters, oddly enough, but his supply of cartridges was limited.

Just then the wall across from him started to _move_. Peter started in his spot but barely budged, fascinated and petrified. Perfect fissures appeared and split the wall in half, parting to reveal a thick pane of glass. Through it Peter could see a long, clean hallway. At first that was all he could make out, until humanoid shapes started to drift into his line of sight...

* * *

 **LucilleBenson:** Ok ok I know this sounds bad, but what if Osborn is right? Could you imagine what we could do if we all had super powers? Or even just super healing? Also, less mutant and powered prejudice, anyone? **  
**

 **Reply from JJJAtHome:** WRONG. Why? 1. Osborn won't share without a price. 2. Escalation 3. Insanity.

 **Reply from TerribleTerryoWo:** JJJ I love you, and I know I'm not that smart, but wth does that even mean.

 **Reply from LucilleBenson: TerribleTerryoWo** Find out on his next podcast. I guess. -shrug- **  
**

* * *

"That was far too close, Captain. You underestimated him and as such he nearly got away from you. Do you know how much that would've cost me? He's the only thing that can make all of this worth it."

"My men gave him the appropriate douse. We didn't want him to die on our watch," the Sable Captain protested as he walked alongside Norman Osborn.

They were in the dimly lit underbelly of an Oscorp facility. The building itself wasn't exactly a secret, but it went by a different alias for its purpose. Most people wouldn't surmise it to be anything more than the records building it solely professed to be. Underneath the records department, though, it held secrets. Sure, Osborn could count a few reporters on a single hand that would suspect its true purpose when they connected the dots, but for now the location would serve.

"Let me put this in simple terms, so you can understand... If you're trying to subdue a _super_ person, don't you think you should use a _super_ sedative?" drawled Norman insultingly.

Dropping his head, the Sable Captain didn't bother to offer another defence. Beneath that outward layer of submission, Osborn could taste the waves of displeasure emanating from the man. These Sable people were a prideful bunch, and this Captain was no exception. He didn't appreciate having his proficiency or that of his team questioned. Snorting at him, Osborn turned a corner to the holding area.

Long ago, Osborn had designed the basement levels of this building for just this purpose in mind. He knew that one day, somehow, he would finally get his hands on Spider-Man, and he was always right. Sure, it had happened a bit too messily and a tad too publicly for his tastes, but at last he had him. For eight years he'd been planning this, discreetly improving on the constructional designs of this place to better aid in the subject's confinement and comfort. It was no five-star hotel, but it was sterile, safe, and with many diverse rooms for stimulation and experimentation.

"Nevertheless, you did get him like I asked, alive, and that's more than I can say for your fellow captains or Silver herself. You and your men will be paid handsomely and escorted out of the country when the quarantine is lifted, like I promised. Not a word of what happened to anyone, or I assure you, it won't be pretty for you. You do not want me as an enemy."

"Wouldn't think of it, sir. You're a paying customer. We may be mercenaries, but we know the rules of the game."

"Good. Now, I need to see him," said Osborn bluntly. His tone left no room for reply or discussion, so the Sable Captain wisely didn't dare violate Osborn's unstated wish for silence.

After another minute or so, Norman Osborn stopped in front of a long stretch of empty hallway. He touched an innocuous panel with his palm and pressed a single button, then stood back, the Sable Captain doing the same. The pale gray panes making up the wall hummed and cleaved in two, moving apart by way of some underlying mechanism. On the other side was an impressive white room, brightly lit and extremely tall. It also appeared to be empty.

His curiosity getting the better of him, Norman stepped forward to peer down into the large enclosure. Nothing. He was about to look upwards when something red, blue, and white slammed into the window, directly across from Norman.

* * *

 **Screwball:** Contrary to popular belief, I AM distraught that my favourite plaything is locked up :( **#savespidey**

 **Reply from TotallyLilo:** WE LOVE YOU SCREW BALL!

* * *

"Boo, ya bum," peeped Peter with some satisfaction.

He doubted that the man could hear him, but he'd scared the shit out of him nonetheless. Norman had stumbled backwards, almost falling on his ass. The Sable agent behind him had backed up by about four feet, hand on his weapon, metaphorical hackles raised. Playful despite himself, Peter stuck his tongue out, pushing forward his mask, then scurried out of sight. That too he doubted Norman saw. While the whole display was playful, it was an intimidation tactic too. Peter wanted Norman to know a number of things that he couldn't convey through language. He wanted the mayor to know that he wouldn't be cowed, wanted to show off that he could sneak up on the man at any time, wanted to imply that without that reinforced window between them, he'd be grievously hurt. But most of all, he wanted to come across as peaceful. This was still his best friend's dad, and a powerful man besides, so it wouldn't be prudent to piss him off too much.

Movements cautious and deliberate, Norman returned to the window around the same time as Peter. The two men were face-to-mask, separated only by that thick layer of transparent glass. Up close, Peter thought he saw something like tears forming in Norman's wide, wonder-filled eyes. It made him slightly uncomfortable, and as a result he shifted from foot-to-foot from where he clung.

" _Amazing_ ," Peter saw the man mouth.

"Not that I don't agree, but why are you doing this Norman?" returned Peter in a low mutter, half to himself and half to the man in question. Of course, Norman didn't hear him. He might have seen his jawline move in the mask, though, because after a moment he touched something on a nearby panel to project his next words into the room through hidden speakers.

" _Spider-Man. Welcome to Oscorp. I'd like to apologize for all the pain you have experienced, and may experience, on my behalf. Your stay will be as comfortable as possible so long as you behave. In time, you might even come to like it here._ "

Following his advanced hearing, Peter found a speaker near the window he was at. Loudly, scathingly, he spoke into it. "Fat chance Norman! Let me out and we can forget all about this."

Unphased, Norman Osborn responded coolly, " _If you obey, I plan to one day allow you free roam of the rooms down here. If you prove_ loyal, _I might even let you out, provided I can call you back._ "

"You're insane."

" _Says the man in the garish outfit. What you call insanity, I call genius._ "

"People aren't just going to roll over and let you do this. There'll be a reckoning, Norman."

" _Perhaps, soon. But not yet. That's why we need to work fast. First step: no more lip_."

"One does not simply tell Spider-man to drop the attitude- _aAARHHH_!" A scream tore through his throat, stealing away his next words. The window he was on was suddenly electrified, setting his body afire with pain. In the span of a few seconds Peter had dropped all the way to the bottom floor, body spasming as residual sparks arced across his form.

Through his shock, pun intended, Peter saw that the panel he took notice of before had changed colours, from blue, to white. He didn't have long to contemplate this before a second shock was generated from the floor. His shoulders seized up, mouth agape from noiseless yells. Again the panel flashed bright white before things started to go black...

* * *

 **uh OH**

 **Obligatory reminder to leave a review if you like what you've read so far and would like to read more! Love you. -keses-  
**


	4. False Face

**AN: Boop I'm back with another chapter. Big thanks to all the sweeties that reviewed last chap.  
**

* * *

 **False Face  
**

* * *

 _"Welcome to "Just the Facts" with J. Jonah Jameson... alerting_ you _to the threats you don't even know about."_

 _"Today's topic is one you've probably all been expecting: Osborn's latest conference. What do_ I _think about it, listeners? To put it simply, and pardon my French, I'VE NEVER HEARD A MORE OLEAGINOUS CROCK OF SHIT! And ANYONE who thinks Osborn has changed his ways and can be trusted after all that's happened... well let's just say THANK MARY MOTHER OF JESUS you're listening to this broadcast so I can set you straight. Ahem, let's break it down, piece by piece."_

 _"The first antibiotic, antiserum, vaccination WHATEVER posts are FINALLY in working order, as Osborn promised. The problem is? They're run almost entirely by volunteers, and there's not nearly enough to combat the disease that's spread to almost the entire city. How pathetic is it that Oscorp can't or won't spare any of their own employees to cure a contagion THEY created. I have word that more temporary stations are set to be put into operation soon, but how long can we wait?_ _At this rate, the quarantine is projected to be lifted within the week, and that's not good enough, people._ _If we don't get a move on, people are going to_ die. _But does Osborn care? No, of course not. He only cares about his new pet project."_

 _"And that brings us to Spider-Man. Apparently Osborn has him locked up somewhere, doing God only knows what. Now some of you might believe that I would be_ happy _about this turn of events._ _However, that is just not the case._ _Yes, Spider-Man's creepy powers have made him elusive to capture, and even clear video, for years. Only in the last couple of years were we even really sure what his confirmed height was, for God's sake. So this should be a good thing, right? What we've always wanted? WRONG. I've always advocated for Spider-Man to be_ arrested _, not locked up like some lab rat. If Osborn had_ any _amount of decency left, he would do the right thing and turn Spider-Man in to the police, where he belongs, instead of taking the law into his own hands. What he's doing right now, in the name of the public good, is no better than what Spider-Man professes to do every day."_

 _"This whole business is extremely problematic for a host of other reasons. Military and medical applications? Are you kidding me?! And people say that_ **I** _have an obsession with Spider-Man. The last thing we need is any more people even a_ little _like him. Who knows what catastrophic consequences could follow. That previous imposter was enough trouble as it was. Remember my position that the escalation of city crime is attributable to Spider-Man's appearance on the scene? Just imagine the escalation of_ warfare _, the permanent genetic stain on the human race. SPIDER-MAN AIN'T NO SUPER SOLIDER. We don't even know if whatever procedures Osborn is proposing are safe! He certainly can't make a genetic cure to save his life! Just look out your window for proof!"_

 _"And what's all this nonsense about keeping us posted with updates? As a company, Oscorp's integrity has always been dubious, but what Osborn is claiming here is almost hilarious. He can't be held accountable if whatever information he releases can be easily censored or cherry picked."_

 _"New York City, please, we need to oppose this with every ounce of our spirit left. We may be battered, but not broken. And yes, Spider-Man, menace that he is,_ did _save us when he returned the anti-serum to the people. It's just a shame that Oscorp got its slimy fingers on it again. Their aid is a mixed bag at best. One thing is for certain, though. Whether he is human or not as Osborn claims, and as I have often speculated, the fact remains that Spider-Man does not deserve this."_

 _"Stay strong New York... Is this thing still on, Jared?!"_

* * *

 **cabbieNYC:** Preach it JJJ!

 **Reply from LaughinLennard:** One of those "J"s stands for Jesus

 **JJinSpace:** Always proud of you, Dad.

* * *

Now that most of her coworkers had been cured, or were in line for a cure, the Daily Bugle was quickly returning to its chaotic state of normalcy. Ironically it'd stayed fairly busy during the mass prison escape and the release of Devil's Breath, experiencing a boom in business like all the other news outlets. But now that people's health weren't as much in decline, the place was practically bustling again. Betty Brant waved at Mary Jane from her desk as she entered. The brunette woman still looked weak, but better than before. Mary Jane made a mental note to get in line for her own injection as soon as she had a moment, just to be safe. She didn't have any symptoms, but she'd been exposed to plenty of people who did.

Right now there were more pressing matters to attend to. She urgently needed to speak to her publisher, Joseph "Joe" "Robbie" Robertson. Luckily the man was alone in his office, his door agape. Photographer Lance Bannon and Pulitzer-prize winner Ben Urich were just now leaving him, and before they could close the door behind them, MJ took the liberty of slipping inside.

"What is it Miss Watson," Robbie sighed tiredly. The newspaper veteran was worn out, but the unabating spark of a newsman that MJ had come to respect still glinted in his eyes. To this day, whenever MJ brought up a pitch that interested him, the spark reignited into a forceful fire.

"I have a story for you, Robbie. Something that could bring down Osborn, hard."

There was that glint again. Immediately the man straightened in his seat, shoulders no longer sagging, eyes alert. "Go on..."

Wordlessly, the red-haired woman took out her trusty flash drive and plugged it into Robbie's computer, who watched patiently and curiously all the while with one eyebrow raised. When the prompt popped up on screen she promptly opened the appropriate file, stepping back so as to not impede Robbie's view. It was the GR-27 lab video-log that she'd discovered in Osborn's personal, penthouse lab, the one labelled "Martin Li Incident".

As the horrifying contents started to play out, Robbie's facial features transformed before her eyes in progressive stages, from confused, to shocked, to unscrutinizable. The utter silence at the end of the file was echoed by its audience. Neither Robbie or MJ spoke, Robbie too stunned to say anything, and MJ unwilling to do so. Until she could appropriately gauge his reaction, there was no way that she'd be the first to dare open her mouth. Steepling his fingers together, Robbie settled back in his spinning leather chair, stern eyes fixed on MJ.

"Where did you get this...?"

"I might've... snuck into Osborn's penthouse apartment and done some digging..." she admitted, holding her breath.

Holding up a hand, Robbie said through clenched teeth, "I'm just going to pretend I didn't hear that. We need to get this out there, in print and in-media." All of the sudden Robbie was all-business. The fire that MJ had grown so familiar with was back in his eyes, brighter and fiercer than ever. "We'll start by anonymously sending this to the News networks. All of them. That way, even if Osborn has invested stock, at least _some_ of them won't be able to resist releasing the video. It's too juicy a morsel. It'll have to be anonymous to protect you, because if Osborn finds out who's responsible for the leak, he could make your career a living hell. In the meantime, I'm assuming you have an article in mind..?"

A grin slowly spread across Mary Jane's mouth. "You know it, boss. Front-page material."

"You've never let me down before MJ, and I know you won't now."

Mary Jane was about to leave, virtually buzzing head-to-toe with newfound ambition, but lingered at the door. "Boss, before I go... It's probably nothing, but... What did you mean when you called Spider-Man " _our_ itsy-bitsy friend?"

"Just a little wordplay is all. I don't actually know the fellow, but he's a friend to all of New York, y'know." **(1)**

"Right, right... Well I guess I'll get cracking on that article, Robbie," said MJ with a forced smile. For some reason Robbie's dismissive answer didn't entirely sit right with her. The man might know more than he was letting on, but there was no way for MJ to prove it, so she wouldn't bother. Her publisher's coyness aside, Mary Jane's enthusiasm was entirely preserved. She left with a little more hope for relieving Peter's situation than before.

She was halfway to her cubicle when her cellphone buzzed. Upon seeing Mile's name on the caller-ID display, she changed courses to a place more private, where she wouldn't be overheard. It wasn't that Mary Jane didn't trust her fellow reporters, or that Miles and her were likely to say anything overly secretive. Rather, she would just prefer avoiding the questions that might follow any eavesdropping. Her coworkers were an inquisitive and nosy folk by nature. Discreetly making a bee-line for a corner, she answered.

"Miles? What's wrong?"

" _I'm freaking out, MJ. Peter hasn't come back, he's not answering his phone_ -"

As calmly and comfortingly as she could manage, MJ cut him off. "Miles, I can't talk right now. Don't worry about Peter, I'm sure he's fine. He can take care of himself out there." Shame burned through Mary Jane's soul at the lie, but she stayed her voice from trembling. She had to stay strong, for Miles, for Peter.

" _Y-Yeah O-OK, you know him best... But just... when are you going to be back_?" The poor kid was trying to pull himself together for her sake.

"As soon as I can, Miles. I'm in the middle of an important assignment, but I'll be sure to check back on you and F.E.A.S.T. as soon as I'm done. Keep in touch with your Mom. I'm sure she's worried out of her skin." The advice was sound, but it still wasn't enough to stay MJ's rising guilt. How many more lies would she have to tell the kid about Peter until this ordeal was over? How often could she abandon him while she pursued her own journalistic quests, keeping him in the dark? Could she live with herself when it was all said and done?

" _You got it_..." gulped Miles, hanging up shortly afterwards.

On her way back to her desk, her friend Katherine "Kat" Farrell pulled MJ aside for a chat. At this point Mary Jane was impatient to start writing. Thoughts and sentences swirled around in her head like a snowstorm, some of the more poignant and eloquent ones smacking her in the face, _begging_ to be jotted down and typed up before they fled her head forever. Nonetheless, MJ indulged her. Kat ran a column exclusively on superheroes, and however unwilling a party she might be to covering their exploits, she was damn good at it. Robbie had done well to assign her to that position and section of the paper.

"Have you heard?" the short-haired, bespectacled redhead breathed out. "You probably have. You always find out these sorts of things first."

"Heard _what_ Kat?" asked Mary Jane restlessly but not unkindly.

"You really haven't?"

"I'm kinda on a tight deadline here and I've got better things to do. It could be a matter of life or death for Spider-Man. So if you're not going to explain..." MJ let the frank threat of walking away hang in the air. It caught Kat's attention.

"Spider-Man, huh? Well then this might interest you. Osborn has set up a sort of blog with status updates about the man himself. It's on the Oscorp website. Guy has guts."

The air left Mary Jane's lungs all at once. "When was this?"

"First post just went up an hour ago. Had so much traffic that the server crashed. Second is scheduled soon, apparently. If you haven't seen it yet, you should now."

* * *

 **TheDailyBugle:** The Princess of Symkaria is set to return to the Big Apple soon. Read all about it in today's Bugle! **  
**

 **Reply from CrocJoc:** hOW WAS SHE EVen allowED to LEave in the FIRST place?

 **Reply from MirandaB:** Perks of royalty I guess.

 **Reply from PhilChang:** She probably got tested. Don't wanna risk starting a war with Symkaria no sir-ee.

 **Reply from SuperPam: CrocJoc** Your spelling is going to give me a seizure.

 **Reply from 2much2handle:** I wonder why she's coming back? Can't be good news for anybody.

* * *

 **opsNthoughts:** Real talk: I'm actually weirdly excited for the updates Mayor O talked about.

 **Reply from onemoretime789:** Me too? Our local Spider is quite the mystery

 **Reply from HolidayGrinch:** Are you shitting me. 1st, y'all are monsters, and 2nd, he's being kennelled like a goddamn dog.

 **Reply from opsNthoughts:** Language pls

* * *

Peter awoke feeling confused, in both body and mind. On the one hand, the stinging in his shoulder was much subsided, and after a long rest he was feeling refreshed and better than he'd felt in a long time. This was unfortunately spoiled by the ceaseless, incessant pounding in his cranium. Additionally, he was weak, weary, and woozy all over. With an awareness that something wasn't quite right, Peter roused himself fully from sleep, forcing his sluggish limbs into submission. The springs of a bed squeaked under him.

At first he moved too fast and nearly blacked out again as a consequence. Hissing to himself, Peter held still for a moment while the blood rushed back into his brain. Whether it was from the electric shock or some as-of-yet undiscerned cause, Peter was almost anemic in condition. Head cleared, he opened his unobstructed eyes for a test of examination.

This time he was in a new room, though one not unlike the last. It was still white, tall, and towering, always with that strange multi-faceted box of lights. The main difference were the terraces that lined the length and height of the room. They were like the platforms of a tree house, but more plain, resembling flat shelves large enough to support a person. Peter decidedly liked the sight of them. Perhaps they could provide many a place to hide from cameras.

He shifted in his spot and something soft brushed against his shoulder. Perplexed at the sensation, his puzzled gaze moved from the room to his bare chest. One hand gingerly touched his opposite shoulder, the site where Otto had impaled him not twenty-four hours before. Since then it'd healed quite a bit on its own, but now the smarting was even less. Someone had disinfected it, bound it with gauze, and treated it with some sort of soothing lotion that Peter could feel against his agitated skin.

Next, Peter dimly took note of an ache on his arm, spreading out from a single, small source. He ran his fingers along the inside of said arm, pausing at the inflamed bend of his elbow. A small pinprick of pain accompanied his pressing on that spot. Ah, an antecubital vein had been punctured, probably to draw blood. That would explain his light-headedness. Come to think of it, drugs would've done it, too.

The last thing that snagged Peter's view was his suit, freshly washed, pressed, and draped across the mattress he was on. It looked as good as new. Even the frayed hole from his fight with Octavius had been mended with careful, nigh-invisible stitches of red thread. The thing that really caught his eye, though, was what lay _on_ the suit. Overtop the white spider logo rested his mask, half-folded, its insect-like eyes staring condemningly back at Peter.

Suddenly Peter couldn't breathe properly. His spine stiffened into a steel rod. Every joint in his bones tensed all at once. A primal, irrational urge screamed at him to run, hide, and cover up. Unable to believe it despite all the evidence smack-dab in his face, his hands felt for the non-existent mask on his person, almost with a will of their own. They only confirmed what he already knew. He was unmasked, to who and how many people, he had no idea.

Nausea spiked in his stomach, making what little contents he had in his system stir threateningly. Peter put a fist to his mouth, brisk breaths puffing through his knuckles. God, he was going to throw up.

Only the act of putting his costume back on was sufficient to calm him down and settle his heaving stomach. Now that he was no longer near-naked, the crisis seemed more distant, able to be overlooked. Peter could take some comfort in the clothes that covered him, however invisible and superficial that anonymity might be now. It wasn't that he was in denial, it was just that he was freaking the fuck out, though the obvious symptoms had receded.

Fifteen minutes of pacing that took him up and down the walls finally ended Peter's inner panic, for the time being. His barely-controlled hysteria wasn't helping him at all. There was nothing he could do, just as there was nothing he could do about the outcome of Dr. Octavius' internment. He'd known when he walked away from that poor, sad old man, that there was always a possibility that his secret would leak as a consequence. With his Aunt's life on the line should he delay, and the thought of a potential sociopath on the loose, he'd been prepared to take that risk. Now it was only up to Otto to decide whether to keep Peter's identity to himself or to release it to the public. This new complication changed nothing, Peter convinced himself.

 _Aunt May..._

Shaking his head, Peter came down from the wall and re-examined the cot where he'd woken up. There was the faint smell of something in the air, something edible and salty that made his mouth water. Following his nose, Peter found a bowl of steaming soup underneath the bed, a spoon resting against its side. Chicken-noodle, just like his Aunt used to make whenever he was sick-

 _Stop that._

With no shame whatsoever, Peter dragged the dish into the light, sat down on the bedside, and starting to chow down. He slurped up everything with a speed that would brand him a pariah in public. Flavoured broth drained down his bowels like a waterfall. Chicken bits were inhaled, only half-chewed. The noodles were absolutely demolished. Peter hadn't eaten for... well, what felt like forever. His metabolism was taxing enough as it was, but with all that added stress, both physical and psychological... To put it short, the soup was a godsend. The only downside was that there wasn't enough to sate his appetite sufficiently.

Albeit somewhat disappointed that the food was gone, Peter deposited his cleaned dishes on the floor beside his feet and stretched in a satisfied sort of way. He had to figure out a way out of here. He didn't know what, or how that would come about, but he _would_ find a way. He _had_ to. Just as he was about to start thinking up a plan of escape, an echoing voice that he knew from childhood boomed throughout the walls.

" _Good morning, Peter. I see you've_ eaten."

"Norman," Peter acknowledged, looking at his feet.

"I _guess I should say I'm surprised, but I'm really not. Instead,_ everything _suddenly makes sense..."_

* * *

 **(1) This will probably surprise no one familiar with the comics, or anyone who's seen that one scene in Spider-Man 2 (2004), but Robbie Robertson has suspected Peter Parker's identity for years, alongside Captain Stacy prior to his death. Ben Urich finds out at one point as well, but decides to keep it a secret alongside Daredevil's identity. Not crazy important but I thought I'd clear that up. Robbie knows things.  
**

 **Shorter update but one with some important shizzle in it. Hope you enjoyed! Leave a review if ya did. Love yeeew.**

 **Question: Do you guys (by "you" I mean reviewers) want some of your names to be included in some of the fake chats? Is that something that would interest you?**


	5. Evaluations of Ethics

**AN: I pulled this chapter title out my rear end. Some necessary plot developments here. Hope you enjoy them! ExcuseanytyposI'mtired  
**

* * *

 **Evaluations of Ethics  
**

* * *

MJ was caught in a destructive loop. There was a job to be done. Robbie and Peter were depending on her. She needed to be pitching in her share, not torturing herself in an endless cycle of masochism. She should've been writing, but instead she couldn't stop watching it, over and over, green eyes locked to her computer screen.

Not long ago, Oscorp had posted a time-lapse titled " _Initial Rehabilitation_ ". The MP4 was just under three minutes, showing Spider-Man receiving the "best care" and having his shoulder treated. It was Peter, alright. Blurred as his face was, there was no denying the shape of his body, the birthmark below his collarbone that only she knew about or would take the time to notice. He was obviously unconscious, head lolling as anonymous, gloved hands worked on his more grievous wounds.

" _For the protection of the individual's identity we will not be releasing raw images_ " scrolled across the bottom of the video, followed by, " _Note that the day-old puncture and tissue avulsion has almost completely regenerated"_.

The captions were simple, but chilled MJ with their callousness. To some they might've seemed compassionate. They came off as scientific and humanitarian, to be sure, but to her they had the exact opposite effect. All she saw was Osborn's underlying cruelty, barely covered up beneath the shiny, self-righteous surface.

It was a relief to see proof of Peter's health, but at the same time, it only compounded MJ's concern. Like a hedge pruned to perfection, this was only a trimmed version of events, a narrow window into Peter's condition. She had no clue what had happened to him before or after this video recording. Worst of all, Osborn knew his face... Would Peter _ever_ be safe now, even if he escaped?

 _One step at a time, MJ_ , she chided herself. First she had to focus on getting him _out_. One tactic was to enrage the New Yorkers into a frenzy, something she knew from experience to be all too easy. The second part was finding the precise location of Peter's imprisonment, going off a few suspected leads provided by herself and Robbie. It'd be tricky, but if she could find him, the benefit would be immense.

Resolutely closing out of the Oscorp website's window, MJ resumed typing...

* * *

 **Nicolareed:** omg he has brown hair. For some reason I love that.

 **Reply from BeccaRave:** Right?

* * *

 **JJJatHome:** SHOW HIS FACE YOU COWARDS

* * *

"Who else knows?" were the first words out of Peter's mouth. His posture was poor, subdued, in contrast to his periodically clenching fists. He needed to know, but dreaded to know at the same time. Fortunately or unfortunately, he didn't have to wait long for Norman to reply, though not without a gloating preamble.

"You don't waste time, do you Peter?" Norman used his first name carelessly and smugly, like he was flaunting a weapon. If it was an intimidation tactic, it worked. Peter felt like there was an axe hanging over his head, about to fall at any moment should he so much as twitch wrong.

"Don't worry. Just two other doctorate-holders under my employ saw your face. I believe you know one of them. A Mr. Miles Warren? If I recall he was one of your Professors at ESU. 'Says he marked your final thesis paper. I would've invited Dr. Michaels onto the team, but recent events have cast doubt on his trustworthiness."

 _Professor Warren?_ Peter's throat tightened. Next to Otto Octavius, Professor Warren had been Peter's favourite scientist to work and learn under at Empire State University. The man had an intellect that few could match, but he was humble about it. During those long, hard semesters, his lessons had always been the highlight of Peter's week. Warren put real effort into his lectures and presented them in such a way that they were deliberately interesting and engaging. Peter never failed to learn something new, when he managed to make it to the classroom on time that is, or stay awake after a particularly tiring patrol. Most importantly, Miles Warren had taken a friendly interest in Peter's academic progress. The two had been as fond of each other as a professor and student _could_ be in college. He'd been fairly understanding to Peter's numerous absences, and had even referred his favourite student to Octavius. And now he was working with Oscorp, knowing full well who Spider-Man really was. Was everyone Peter admired destined to betray him? _Not Mary Jane,_ Peter decided, taking a certain comfort in that thought. _Never Mary Jane._

Across and above from Peter, some of the flat segments that made up the facade of the wall spread out to expose a window underneath. At last Peter could see Norman and not only hear him. The red-haired man was in his customary attire of a dress shirt, but without the suit coat. He looked morose, hands clasped behind his back. "Dr. Benita Sanchez treated your wounds and removed your mask at my request. She was quite impressed at how good a shape you're in."

"Whoop-de-doo..."

Ignoring his sarcastic remark, Osborn assured him, "Don't worry about your identity. For now it's safe, so long as it remains in my best interests to keep it privately known."

"What do you _want_ Norman?" Peter tiredly gritted out through his teeth. Trying a new sentimental tactic, his tone changed to pleading. " _Please_ , just let me _go_. We've known each other for years. I'm your son's best _friend_..."

"If you really cared about Harry, you wouldn't ask me that."

Genuinely confused at the lack of clarification, Peter questioned, "What do you mean?"

For a second it looked like Norman might answer, but then he transitioned to a slightly different though not-wholly-unrelated topic. "I'm hoping, with you here, I might finally make some breakthroughs. My last stride in the direction of human tests was hardly a success. You met him. I believe he called himself "Blood-Spider" before they carted him off to the Ravencroft Institute. What you may not know was that he was an accident. I was trying a new kind of experimental medicine, based on what I knew about _you_. Out of all the test subjects, only he survived." **(1)**

In an instant, a myriad of memories from months ago assaulted Peter's mind. He remembered a man with similar powers to his own, so sick in the head that he actually thought he _was_ Spider-Man, albeit a twisted version with a superiority complex. Michael Bingham. The Spider-Man-imposter's appearance had set off a roller coaster of death and destruction, all perpetrated in Peter's alter-ego's name. Countless cases of harassment, two men dead by brief association with the real web-head, a female coworker blown up in a bombing meant lure him out... It'd only stopped when Peter had confronted Bingham in a public battle, putting to bed at last who the real, and still best Spider-Man truly was. Back then, Bingham had worked for Fisk, before turning on him at the last minute to best become his own ambitions. The mystery of where he came from or why he sabotaged Fisk instead of Osborn had been left hanging, but no longer. Fury filled Peter, from his beating heart to his smallest vein.

"Bingham? _You're_ responsible for that fiasco?!"

"Yes, that was my work, I'm afraid."

The man might as well have been talking about broken glass or spilt milk. Shocked at his tone and trying to rouse the morality that he knew was there, Peter said, "People _died_ Norman!"

On the other side of the glass Osborn shrugged, as if absolving himself of all guilt in that one gesture. "I couldn't keep him on a leash. I knew that pinning you two against each other would be the end of him eventually, and I was right. Bingham was a weakling, and no amount of superpowers can change a person's core. You took care of it rather nicely if I do say so myself."

"He was insane. There's no glory in beating up a someone so mentally ill that they can hardly function in a fight without raving."

Waving a hand dismissively, Norman explained, "A side-effect of the medicine and his confinement with the other subjects, though the childhood trauma probably didn't help. That's why I gave up on that particular type of medicine and moved on to focusing full-time on GR-27. Come to think of it, the gradual mutation hardly did wonders for his mental health, either."

This piqued Peter's natural curiosity, although he was almost afraid to ask about it. "Gradual mutation?"

"It doesn't matter," Norman drawled. "The point is, he was defective. Lacked your finer abilities, and that sixth sense you seem to have was absent. Intentionally created or not, the fact that I was able to get that close to making my own "Spider-Man", and yet somehow miss the mark by a mile... You have no idea how frustrating that is."

"It's not my fault that I'm unique. I'm just naturally copycat-resistant," snarked Peter.

"Maybe, but that's why you're here, to crack the code. And if that doesn't end up happening, then I'm sure I'll find _some_ use for you."

A weighted, ponderous pause, then, "This explains everything. Harry _did_ say you were always running around like a chicken with its head cut off, but I just assumed it was a part of your burgeoning-genius personality. I was quite the procrastinator myself in college..." Nostalgia clouding his voice, Norman drifted off and cleared his throat. "I never got to thank you, by the way, for saving my life."

Lost cause or not, Peter begged him again, "You could thank me by letting me loose."

"I can't do that, Peter. This means too much to me..."

* * *

 **ObjectionNelson:** If someone wants to sue the shit out of Osborn and/or Oscorp, then our firm is for you. Contact Nelson and Murdock today.

 **Reply from Matthew_Murdock:** That's not professional Foggy **(2)**

* * *

When Benita Sanchez had signed up for this Oscorp-sponsored study, she'd had no idea at the time what she was getting into. Norman had approached her personally, talking about how her expertise in genetics and experimental pharmacology would be perfect for what he had in mind. Though the flattery hadn't hurt, it was Benita's own scientific interest that prompted her to consider the offer. As time went on, exciting details started to emerge. Spider-Man was the proposed subject, and all the possibilities implied in that detail alone were enough to win _two_ Nobel Prizes, if they played this right. At first she'd leapt at the chance, obviously, but now...

Seeing Spider-Man's face had sealed the deal for her: this was wrong. With the mask, it was easy to convince herself that they weren't really dealing with a _person_ under that costume. Without it, he seemed so vulnerable, so indisputably _human_. He was a young man, too, young enough to be her son, fresh over the hump of manhood. What was worse was examining the technology implemented inside the costume. It was surprisingly high-quality work, and if Spider-Man had created it himself, then Benita Sanchez was quite possibly dealing with someone as smart or smarter than herself.

Rather than being awarded a Nobel Prize, Benita could see herself becoming a pariah. Years from now students would be learning about her in textbooks, right alongside war criminals. Dr. Sanchez, the woman who helped cut up Spider-Man and sew him back together, for science. The world would loathe her, and the scientific community would revile her. She could have all her licenses suspended, her reputation dragged through the mud for her violation of protocol.

 _Only if they find out,_ she reminded herself. Osborn had guaranteed her and Dr. Warren's anonymity on his end, though that promise hadn't done a ton of good for Dr. Morgan Michaels. And what about Spider-Man? If he didn't already know their names, he would soon. Of course, first he would have to _prove_ his claim, maybe reveal his identity in order to enact an actual police charge. No, she was safe, for now.

Benita breezed through a glass door into an underground laboratory space that she and Dr. Warren had taken to using. The building and resources Osborn had provided were extensive, but this room was the best of the lot. Already she and Warren had established a sort of homeostasis, a working relationship built on unstated rules and boundaries. Warren tended to keep to the right side of the room, and she to the left. For his more private projects, he went to another, smaller room altogether. Though the two were cordial, Warren refused to confide in Benita about his secretive side-research. Apparently it was originally Warren's idea, but Osborn had ran with it, and now that Spider-Man was actually on-site, the work had picked up exponentially.

Right now Warren was bent over his high-zoom microscope like a ghoul, intent on his slides. As Benita entered and took a stool for herself, she saw him exchange one slide for a second one. On each there was a single drop of blood, blood that Benita knew to be Spider-Man's. She knew, because she'd extracted it herself while he was under. The middle-aged man seemed enraptured, hardly moving upon her arrival.

There was something strange about Warren's reaction to seeing Spider-Man unmasked for the first time. Benita couldn't put a finger on it, but he'd appeared moved, moreso than even her. It was more than merely being moved. There'd been something in his eyes, like a light going off in his brain. Recognition, perhaps. Whatever it was, it hadn't interfered with Warren's drive.

"How does it look?" said Benita, drawing his reluctant attention.

Miles Warren was a man of middling years, slightly older than herself and Mayor Osborn. His ear-length hair was flat and greying, just like his moustache. Over shrewd hazel eyes he wore thick, square-lens glasses. Benita knew him to be fairly friendly, but ever since Spider-Man entered the picture he'd become more and more obsessive and solitary. It was harder than ever to talk to him without feeling like a burden.

"I've never seen anything like it. Norman was right, no X-gene or related loci. He could've been born with these powers, or acquired them later. Accidental or created, I don't know, but what I _do_ know is that the blend is near-seamless. Spider and human, one organism, no negative defects that I can find. The chance of this happening at random..."

Just as amazed as Warren, Benita slowly shook her head at the floor. "It's like everything I learned during my undergraduate days just got tossed out the window..."

"I know, but that's what makes what we're doing all the more important."

As much as Benita tried to force the guilt down, it came back up like bile. "I suppose... But, about that... do you ever feel like... like we're doing something _wrong_? Like we might be on the wrong side of history, here?"

"Please, Benita. It's just one man. Harry Harlow? Edward Thorndike? B.F. Skinner? Hans Selye? Philip Zimbardo? Stanley Milgram? All controversial experiments. Sure, people love to condemn them nowadays, but we also worship them. Their names fill every lecture, just about every scientific journal to date. Do you know why? Because while their work was ugly, what we learned from them is invaluable, and never to be recreated legally. What we know about organisms is based wholly on people like them, who are willing to take risks. I want to be one of them. I want my name to be remembered for generations to come, whether it be in infamy or praise. Don't you?"

Benita nodded in a self-effacing manner, swallowing down her misgivings again. She did want that. There was no backing out. Not yet.

* * *

 **E_Reed:** It's just not the same without Spidey swinging around :( **  
**

 **Reply from NerdGirl117:** Relatable. **#savespidey**

 **Reply from Hamae:** I know. Feels unreal.

 **Reply from ScarletNightFury:** Is this the real life?

 **Reply from DZombieDragon:** Is this just fantasy?

 **Reply from E_Reed:** No

 **Reply from juju_star:** Caught in a landslide

 **Reply from E_Reed:** stop

 **Reply from PitchWolf:** No escape from reality

 **Reply from E_Reed:** STOP

 **Reply from Spider_lurv:** oPEN YOUR EYES

* * *

"Silver Bird en route, clear the street," said an agent at Silver Sablinova's side. Four men flanking her, Silver strode across the sidewalk and into the picturesque building before her. They left behind a locked silver limo, that under normal circumstances would've been easy prey for New York's criminal underbelly. As it was, the vehicle's known ownership was enough of a deterrent to dissuade any common crooks from trying their luck.

Upon exiting her private plane in New York, the Symkarian princess had been escorted to her country's embassy by her personal guard. Although the city was still technically under quarantine, the strictness of security had laxed somewhat since the immediate threat had passed. Extreme enforcement by her men was steadily becoming obsolete. No longer was New York in danger of mass death, though some people remained infected. Thus, while the sable agents had stopped terrorizing citizens, they still kept the city under lock-and-key should the sickness spread outside the island.

The interior of the Symkarian embassy was as elegant as the exterior. The only downside was that it felt too much like home, empty and cold. She expected to be greeted by the ambassador upon her arrival, but he must've been out, because there was no sign of him. With a sigh, Silver walked up some stairs to her quarters. When she got there, the men respectfully waited outside, two posting themselves on either side of her door.

Appreciative of the privacy, Sable haphazardly unpacked her luggage, took off her coat, and grabbed her phone. To get to her next destination, Silver first had to get in contact with her Captains and request a full report of Osborn's whereabouts. The phone was needed because her abandonment of the mission had left her out-of-the-loop for its remainder. The Captains had replaced her authority, and during her absenteeism the radio channels had been changed. She'd come back for one specific reason, and that reason wore red-and-blue spider-themed tights.

Osborn had actually done it. Having seen Spider-Man repel her men more times than she could count, Silver had deduced that it was on account of his physical state and not her men's competence that they had succeeded. She had no idea why the mayor wanted Spider-Man in his clutches, and at the time of receiving that order, she hadn't cared. A job was a job, and Spider-Man was a nuisance as it was. But then, things had changed; _s_ _he_ had changed.

Spider-Man had helped her in ways that he couldn't even imagine, and now, she would do her best to repay the favour.

* * *

 **(1) The whole bit about Blood-Spider is an extended reference to Hostile Takeover, the prequel novel to the game. Blood-Spider doesn't have a spider-sense, but his madness isn't necessarily attributable to the medicine, or at least not completely. It's plausible but not confirmed, so technically I made that up/based it on my own interpretation of the timeline of his mental state.  
**

 **(2)** ** **Because I know someone may either be genuinely confuzzled, or try and be a smart aleck, blind people are fully capable of using their phones with verbal features. There, now you're educated? :')****

 **SO if you commented/reviewed last chapter you may find your names in the fake social media... thingalings. I tried to only use people who were in support of the idea/consenting, but if you ever feel like I'm putting words into your username's mouth that are offensive to you just let me know and I'll switch your username out pronto! I'm going to continue to occasionally pull from the reviews in the future!**

 **Reviews are always appreciated!**


	6. Solitude

**AN: The chats in between scenes are going to seem really out-of-place this chapter because boi do things get dark here. As always, if you find your username in the fanfic, and you would like it removed, let me know ASAP! -heart-  
**

* * *

 **Solitude**

* * *

Dark.

Peter crawled through the dark, clinging to some horizontal surface. All around him was a sea of jet-black-sable, so thick he could swim in it. The pull of gravity was his only indicator of what was up or down. Grooves under his sensitive fingertips occasionally marked the placement of a panel, but otherwise everything was smooth and slick. Although his night vision was highly superior to that of most diurnal mammals, there was little even _he_ could make out in the absolute absence of any light. Luckily, spiders rarely relied on solely light.

Pausing, Peter perked up and pivoted his head in a wide, ninety-degree arc, alerted by some sound. It was his ears that he was adjusting with that motion, not necessarily his eyes. There it was again, a vibration to his right. Jolted into action by the sudden shock of his spider-sense, Peter scuttled to the side, body low.

Two bullets bounced off the wall by his foot, and a third embedded itself by his hand. A scarce half-second ago they could've hit his head. Peter wasn't even sure that they were really bullets. They _moved_ like bullets, _sounded_ like bullets, but they were weaker upon impact. When he touched the one lodged in the wall, he felt fletching, like the kind on the end of a dart.

Letting out a grunt, Peter backflipped into the blackness, away from another volley of flechettes. He hit the floor running, but didn't stay grounded for long. Judging by the persistence of his spider-sense, this wasn't over. It took only two strong strides to get him sprinting along the sides of the room, speed and velocity alone keeping his body upright. Projectiles followed him all the while, increasing in their intensity and density. The intervals between barrages were shortening, now. A clump peppered the floor-wall-whatever in front of him. Skidding to a stop, Peter changed directions on a dime, heart pumping and pores sweating.

It never stopped. Sure, there were breaks, brief interludes of peace in which he could catch his breath, but not much more than a minute in-between bombardments. Peter was rapidly running out of steam. What did they _want_ from him? Was this a punishment? A performance? An appraisal? When would it stop? When he dropped dead from exhaustion? It must've been hours since it started, and so far there was no end in sight.

Having slowed for a second, Peter got a dart to the thigh in spite of his screeching spider-sense. With a muffled cry, he tumbled to the floor. Yep. Ouch. They may not be bullets, but they definitely _hurt_ like bullets. He yanked the dart from his cleaved muscles, bones aching and body burning, before scrambling to his feet. As though they were waiting for him, the machines had halted in their deadly hail, hesitating. The game resumed as soon as he was somewhat recovered.

Now that the room had landed its first hit, things began to go downhill. Peter was wounded and lamed, less able to rest weight on his left leg, less capable of keeping up the pace that this place had set for him. Every stride made him want to scream, so he settled for spraying some precious webbing over the point of insertion. Additionally, the darts seemed to contain some sort of sedative, because from that moment on his movements were more sluggish and uncoordinated. Even with his injury, Peter miraculously managed to keep ahead of any more darts for what must've been another twenty minutes. Even so, eventually, inevitably, he was tagged twice more.

With words that would've made Aunt May blush, Peter scampered to a corner. He huddled there, swearing colourfully, clenching his useless eyes closed. _God, fucking, OW._ This time it was his neck and shoulder that were nicked. Again the deluge of darts eased up, but when it became clear that he was starting to lose consciousness from the drug, the unseen machines fired for keeps. Peter dodged out of instinct, arms flailing in front of his face as a shield, a shield that only succeeded in accumulating little bits of metal and fletching.

This was it. His head was spinning, his tongue was dry, and his throat was parched. The last thing Peter could recall was the lights of that room switching on with blinding suddenness, the unforgiving floor racing up to meet him.

* * *

 **RogueSableAgent:** My buddy says he can hear him screaming sometimes.

* * *

When Peter woke up, the difference between this setting and the last was like light and day. While the previous room was without light, this one was obnoxiously bright. Before, he'd been utterly unrestricted, able to move as only Spider-Man could. Now, he was strapped inside a tiny tunnel, inwardly and outwardly lit, with metal cuffs clamped at four points along his arms and legs, and two particularly thick bands over his chest and forehead.

The sedative still swirled in his system, making him soporific and drowsy. He tested the restraints and found he could not budge them, at least, not in this state. Vibranium? Or worse, adamantium? Or was he just so out of it that any old iron would do?

 _Wait_ , Peter thought, a chink of clarity breaking through the confusion. A familiar memory from his college days reared its head. _I know this. This is... fMRI. I'm in a kind of functional-magnetic-resonance-imaging machine._

Peter couldn't see past his feet—or shift his head more than a few centimetres, really—but his spider-sense alerted him to a touch at his toes before it happened. His hackles raised, Peter hollered incoherently at the person just out of his sight. Coward. His spider-sense usually only worked on enemies, so he knew that the prod was no innocent gesture.

Sure enough, he was right. What could've been a taser or a cattleprod grazed the soles of his feet. Peter might've screamed, if not for the fact that his teeth were locked together, facial muscles spasming under the mask. Surprisingly, the surge of electricity didn't fry the inside of the fMRI machine. The mat Peter was under must've been rubber, or another insulating, non-conductive material.

A subsequent poke proved to be the prod of a needle, sinking its way into his upper thigh. Fruitlessly, frustratingly, his spider-sense gave him its usual forewarning. Peter strained his eyes over his nose to catch a glimpse of the culprit, but saw only a white coat.

For the first time in his life, Peter actually wanted to punch a powerless person to near-death. Never before had he been more helpless, and it angered him. More than that, though, he hated the fear, the isolation, the cold hands that occasionally administered substances or slid him sustenance under his door but never spoke.

He missed MJ. He missed Miles. He missed _May_. It'd only been a day but he was already a bitter, broken animal. It wasn't the experiments. He could handle those, no problem. It was the loneliness. May's wise words and wheat cakes, Miles' innocent, intelligent eyes, MJ's kind smiles and cherry lips...

If only he could punch a person.

* * *

 **KingPotato:** Ok, which of you beautiful heathens were responsible for that raid on ScrewBall's stream? **  
**

 **Reply from ScarletNightFury:** Guilty as charged.

 **Reply from Sleepawaysora:** I served my country well today

 **Reply from AWSMSCE:** Doing God's work.

 **Reply from Dorngok Sekker:** I didn't choose the thug life, the thug life chose me. **  
**

* * *

It was with some relief that Silver Sablinova was welcomed into the Oscorp building. This way, she wouldn't have to sneak in herself. As soon as the secretary saw her, she called for a pair of her own agents, who in turn escorted Sable deeper into the building. An elevator let them descend an unnamed number of levels in seconds. The trio never spoke, all professional and never sociable, just like Sable was used to.

Sable was surprised at the ease of entry that she'd been greeted with. It wasn't right. Yes, she was an important figure, but Osborn struck her as a suspicious man, and she was rarely wrong. Years of study and combat had made her damn good at reading people. Osborn would guard his prize jealously from prying eyes, only allowing as much information as he was obligated to make it to the surface. Sable had abandoned her commission to her men, trusting in their competence but at the same time wishing them the worst. And now, Osborn and her agents were allowing her back into the loop, without so much as a sniff or sneer in her direction.

Something else was up. Osborn wanted to talk to her. Beg for her expertise? Not likely. Rail into her? Most probably. It didn't matter either way. The only thing that was on her mind was Spider-Man.

She knew he was here. The first Captain she'd contacted, a loyal man from her home country, had told her as much. A large percentage of Sable's men were cut-throat scumbags. A sacred few were entrusted into her inner circle, her Wild Pack. She admired their resolve and skill, even if she didn't admire their morals. Who was she to judge? Before Spider-Man, she hadn't had many morals to speak of, either. Spider-Man had been an awakening of sorts, a sign that there was a different way to live, one where selflessness and not selfishness defined an individual. He'd defended Osborn, an enemy, with no paycheck in his pocket for the damages that ensued. His motives were a mystery, but whatever they were, Sable put them in the highest esteem.

And now, he was caged. It was the worst tragedy that Sable could imagine with her new perspective. A true warrior, not defeated or dispatched with any honour, but instead impounded underground. Once upon a time, when Sable had been a small child, she'd set a silver-tipped falcon free from her Aunt's bedroom. The poor thing was caged right beside the open window, the wind ruffling its wings, close enough to freedom that it could taste it on its feathers. Sure, the old bat that was her Aunt had shrieked at her when she found the birdcage empty, but the young Sable could've cared less. Once forgotten, that lesson from her childhood had been reignited by Spider-Man's bravery. A bird needed to fly, and a Spider needed to swing, to float on the breeze and build its webs.

At last the elevator stopped, doors opening to let its occupants out. Colourless, sweeping corridors branched out in front of them. The agents took the lead, and Sable got the distinct impression that she was being escorted to a disciplinary hearing rather than a client. For a while, she indulged them, following patiently and without any fuss. At a crossroads, though, she exploded into action.

A swift jab to the neck incapacitated the first agent. Crying out, he collapsed in an unconscious heap. It served him right for not following protocol with his armour. Reacting quickly, the remaining agent reached for the radio-switch built into his helmet. Smart man. He knew he couldn't take her by himself. Sable was a brutal and efficient opponent, in stark contrast to the flashy fighting style of Spider-Man. She kicked the man's hand hard enough to sprang the wrist, and sure enough, the limb fell limp.

"Silver-!" the man started, his voice shocked but snarling. Sable saw to it that he never finished his sentence. A round-house kick to the throat rendered him immobile and twitching.

Sable didn't bother to hide the bodies. No point. Cameras would've caught the entire encounter, so she was on a timer, now. There was no time to find a closet or cover her tracks. Besides, if things went well, she would be in and out before Osborn could stop her, hopefully with Spider-Man in tow.

The place was a labyrinth of hallways, labs, and large, hidden rooms blocked off by metal walls. It must've taken years to build, not even mentioning the effort of keeping its construction discreet in a city like New York. If it weren't for the signs hanging over each room, numbering them by their proximity to the elevators, Sable wouldn't have noticed half of them. Spider-Man was in one of these rooms, but so far she'd seen about a half-dozen. Time was running out, and the sound of an approaching patrol only complicated matters.

Holding her breath, Sable ducked into a small side-hallway for cover, listening and looking around the corner as a few agents charged by. Pathetic. They didn't even notice her. No wonder Spider-Man encountered so few issues when infiltrating her bases. _Like a herd of bulls_ , thought Sable, _dangerous but brainless_. When she returned home, she would have to speak with her fellow Commanders about upping the training regimen.

Now that she was stationary, Sable's gaze was drawn to a mounted console across from her current cover. It wasn't the first of its kind that she'd seen, but this one was different, eye-catching. When it was safe to do so, she walked towards it, noting the blinking blue light next to the words " _occupied_ ". Awfully convenient, but then, who _wouldn't_ lose track of a single Spider in a complex so vast.

Nothing was labelled, and the sole English she could see was that singular word, " _occupied_ ". There was only one button that didn't have a warning sign, so Sable pressed it with the pad of her finger. Immediately, she saw results. The wall in front of her was simply no longer a wall. In its place was a window. It'd cracked open, like an egg, its pieces shuffling aside to allow her to peer inside.

Not three seconds upon opening the room up for observation, something human in shape pounced like a panther onto the window pane. Pleading lenses met her eyes, white and wide. Relief washed over Sable like a tide. She'd found him, though he wasn't in the best state. Spider-Man's chest was moving fast, and he could hardly stay in place. There were all these nervous twitches, little ticks that made Sable want to irrationally touch him, to soothe him.

 _Help me_ , his supplicating lenses seemed to say.

"I'm going to get you out of here," she replied, touching the glass. One of the other buttons was sure to do the trick. Perhaps the biggest one...?

She didn't have long to deliberate before Osborn showed up, his voice tighter than a noose. Whipping around, Sable backed up in front of Spider-Man, almost protectively. Seven of her agents hovered at Osborn's back, bringing up the rear. They slowly circled her, guns levelled.

"I see how it is," Osborn said, eyes flickering from Spider-Man to her. "First you ruin my reputation through your incompetence, then you try to take my specimen. Let's just say I won't be leaving a good review."

"Ruin your reputation?" scoffed Sable, surprised, but also stalling. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't _lie_. I turned on the news this morning, and guess what greeted me? A confidential video file, taken right from my apartment. Sensitive material that I expected to be safe. You were _there_ , Princess, and you never told me there was a breach."

"There was too much happening," she answered half-honestly. "My men and I caught some girl sneaking around, but she got away with Spider-Man."

"And guess how I got to find out about that? In the middle of my morning coffee. Wonderful. Just wonderful. I don't _care_ that you're royalty, Sable. You're fired. I want you out of my city, and out of my country. Can you do that?"

Righteous fury caused Sable's voice to crack like a whip. "Not without him. I'm breaking him out, with or without your consent." On that note, she stepped towards the buttons, hand hovering threatening over the largest one. The only thing that stopped her from slamming it downwards was a combined wariness of hitting the wrong button, or else being shot at by the silent agents. For all she knew, she could accidentally kill Spider-Man with one of these controls. But maybe, by gauging Norman's reaction, she could taper down her options.

Norman narrowed his eyes, his entire frame tense. He in turn matched her threat with one of his own. "If you so much as touch that console, I will terminate Sable International's contract completely. I know how your country relies on the income from these jobs. How will you explain that to your father? To your men?"

"I don't care," she snapped.

"But we do," said another man, a man she recognized as one of her top Captains, now turn-coat. Austin. According to rumour, he and his squad had been the ones to bring Spider-Man in. Simultaneously, he and the surrounding agents stepped forwards and flicked off their safeties.

To take Osborn's side was one thing, but to turn their weapons on her, weapons _she_ had provided... They'd bitten the hand that fed them, and now there would be no forgiveness on her part. Astonished but infuriated by their gall, Sable spat, "Traitors!"

"Sorry, sir. Norman is the one paying the bills; he's our real boss. We only take orders from him and your father."

It was a stand-off. Sable didn't dare drop her hand, not while they were so intently focused on her every move. Her twin pistols weighed heavily in her pockets, just barely out of reach. Spider-Man was a silent spectator. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him shifting, lenses larger than ever. Heartbreakingly, she saw him hang his head, as if in acceptance. For some reason, that small, defeated gesture spurred her into action. She didn't care what happened to her anymore, so long as Spider-Man had a fighting chance at escape.

"Very well," she said, relaxing, seemingly stepping down. Her feigned surrender predictably put the men at ease. The barrels of their advanced rifles dipped slightly, and it was at that moment that she struck. As she lunged for the controls, the men opened fire.

Like she was underwater, her hand moved in slow-motion, frustratingly never fast enough. So too did the energy bolts from the guns make their approach. She could see them coming for her, shooting off orange and red sparks from the main beams. Unfortunately, the guns were faster than her hand. Thrown back into the window, she cried out a curse. Blood was oozing all about her, and there was a blistering sensation in her abdomen, arm, and hip. Worse than singed skin, she could feel her head getting light from blood loss. Nonetheless, she tried to stand. Captain Austin waved his weapon warningly at her, and when she didn't comply with his unspoken demand, he fired at her foot.

To put it bluntly, the sight of her seriously injured made Spider-Man lose his shit.

" _BASTARDS!_ " he screamed, loud enough to be heard through the thick glass, however muffled he might be. The masked man wound up an arm and rammed it onto the window, and again, again, again... To Norman's and Sable's shock, he started to shatter the glass, intersecting cracks expanding outwards from the point of impact like the strands of a spider's web. The next blow bashed free bits of broken glass. Norman stepped back, licking his lips.

"That's impossible. It's eight inches thick," he muttered, before quickly recovering. All business, Osborn barked, "Deploy the gas!"

An agent brushed past her, hastily pushing one of the buttons she'd been eyeing previously. Thick swaths of gas rose into the room, likely leaking through hidden vents. The pale fumes spread, and Sable saw Spider-Man's shoulders shake with choking coughs, but he didn't stop. Spider-Man was either holding his breath, or was just too resilient, far gone, berserk, or pumped full of adrenaline to be affected. Whether it was his sheer strength, motivation, lung capacity, or a combination of the three that was keeping him awake, Sable was amazed at his fortitude.

As enraptured as Sable was, she was also still losing quite a lot of blood. The world seemed to sway on an off-kilter axis, and she hardly reacted when Norman took up the controls next. A distant bellow brought her back to reality, though. Norman had started to shock Spider-Man into submission, emotionless eyes fastened onto the writhing prisoner.

"Enough!" gasped Sable, reviving enough to voice a protest. "Stop. Just stop."

Norman wavered but didn't cease, casting a glance her way. The current had Spider-Man locked in place, jittering and trembling even as he leaned back to escape it. It was more than Sable could take. Instead of helping him, she'd gotten in the way and caused him undue agony. In the heat of the moment, all she wanted was for the suffering to stop, transient as it was.

"Please. Just stop hurting him. I'll go."

At the same time as Norman's thumb left the panel altogether, Spider-Man tumbled like a bag of potatoes away from the window, coming to a resting position on the floor.

* * *

 **Some notes: The "Silver-Tipped Falcon" is some bs national bird I made up to be native to Symkaria. I also have no idea if Sable's Dad is still alive in this universe, like in the comics. I'm going to say he is -shruggles- Ofc, his authority exceeds hers.  
**

 **It was a struggle to get through the last of this chapter but eeh it's here! I hope you guys like it. Kind of anti-climatic, but Spidey's suffering isn't quite done yet.**

 **I'd love it if you could leave a review, please! -huggles- As soon as my exams are over updates will be less sporadic, but until then, if you'd like an update soon you'll have to add demand for it. ;A;  
**


	7. Two Birds

**AN: Longer chapter upcoming! Since I'm going to be busy with skiing for a bit, I wanted to leave you guys with a _slightly_ meatier word count. Things really ramp up, here. I didn't have as much time to find and fix typos, so if you come across any I'm sorry!**

* * *

 **Two Birds**

* * *

 _"Welcome to "Just the Facts" with J. Jonah Jameson... alerting you to the threats you don't even know about._ _Lots of news to go over today, listeners, and none of it good. BIG surprise. Let's get right into it."_

 _"Silver Sablinova of Symkaria is on her way out of the country once more, while_ we _continued to be caged in Manhattan Island from all sides by her soldiers._ _Why, you ask? Who the hell knows. That woman is a basket case if I ever did see one, which is why I thank God every day that I live in a monarchy-free America. Her departure might have something to do with purported sightings of the princess with injuries, or the brewing civil conflict back in her home country. Whatever happened, Sablinova is keeping it on the down low, and Sable International has no comment on the matter."_

 _"Onto the thing you've all been waiting for: Spider-Man. Yes, yes, I saw the latest update on Oscorp's torture blog, so you can stop tweeting me about it. And yes, I did say torture blog. YOU CAN'T FOOL ME MR. MAYOR-Ahem, anyhow."_

 _"If the contents of that info drop didn't disturb you, then you need to see a doctor. For those who didn't watch it, in short, they shot at Spider-Man to see if he could dodge bullets or whatever. And he did. Whoop-de-doo. Want to know what_ I _have to say about that? Well, NO SHIT SHERLOCK. SPIDER-MAN HAS BEEN DODGING BULLETS FOR YEARS. WHY THE HELL DO YOU THINK HE HASN'T BEEN ARRESTED BEFORE. HE'S HARDER TO HIT THAN THAT ONE SPIDER WHO SHOWS UP IN YOUR SHOWER AND THEN DISAPPEARS INTO THE ABYSS WHEN YOU GO TO GRAB A WAD OF TOILET PAPER, NEVER TO SHOW UP AGAIN EXCEPT IN YOUR DAMN DREAMS, ALWAYS WATCHING."_

 _"Wait a minute wait a minute... Jared is reminding me that this is supposed to be a "family-friendly show". To any families, I apologize. I forgot."_

 _"In closing, I will never understand the scientific process."_

* * *

 **TheLovelyCassandra:** My sister is a secretary at Oscorp. She saw Spider-Man playing pinochle and walking around with Osborn. Chummy. **  
**

 **Reply from SausageAssassin:** Bullshit.

 **Reply from Darin_M:** Bullshit.

 **Reply from iustuscadens:** That's BS Cassandra

 **Reply from FedUpFaith:** Cass stop spreading lies about me. I'm an internal decorator.

 **Reply from TheLovelyCassandra:** Sorry sis.

* * *

Although her article was out and receiving a surprising amount of attention, Mary Jane felt empty. Usually, something that she put so much time, heart, and work into would've brought her more satisfaction. To the contrary, though, MJ took no joy in submitting the article for publication, and no pleasure in seeing it on the front page. She remained unfulfilled.

Peter's absence was a sharp scar on her person that wouldn't heal, something that stung every time she thought of him. At the most inopportune times, she would expect him to be places where he wasn't, forgetting for a moment that he'd been plucked from her life to instead reside in a lab. Once, her Aunt Anna called Mary Jane to check in on her and offer congratulations for making it to the front page. MJ had eagerly answered with Peter's name hovering on the tip of her tongue, only to wilt and wither when Anna's tones answered instead. Another time, a pigeon pecked on her apartment window, and MJ had automatically rushed over with the intent of letting Peter inside.

This moping had to stop, and so did her stalling. MJ needed to see Miles, as she'd previously promised. She needed to meet with Miles just as much as the boy needed to meet with her. It would make her feel productive, like she was accomplishing something that Peter would've approved of. If nothing else, it would keep her distracted, what with the fully-written article no longer occupying her thoughts.

Miles had stayed at F.E.A.S.T. throughout the entire, city-wide crisis, and there he remained. Parts of his motivations were probably based out of a sense of responsibility, but MJ also knew that this particular F.E.A.S.T. shelter was one of the safest places in the city, and surprisingly well-supplied considering the food shortages. Because of this, Miles' Mom had given her full blessing for Miles to stay there, and often came by herself to help out.

After a quick call to confirm that Miles wasn't in the middle of a supply run, volunteering for the Devil's Breath shots, or something or other, MJ entered the shelter. Inside it was significantly less congested with stranded people as when she'd last seen it. Many citizens were risking venturing back into their homes, or attempting to reclaim them from convicts or Sable agents. As a result, the strain on the shelters had diminished to a manageable minimum.

As MJ waded through the stragglers, she received a lot of waves and soft greetings. During these past few, hectic days, she'd become a well-recognized face amongst the F.E.A.S.T. inhabitants. New York's population never ceased to impress her with its mettle and grit. It didn't seem to matter that they'd been subjected to a bio-terror attack, or that their friendly-neighbourhood superhero was stolen from them. There was sorrow, yes, but their spines remained strong and unshattered. Overall, New York's indignation of injustice outweighed their heartache. They'd pulled together in places like F.E.A.S.T., timely supporting each other when it really counted.

Mary Jane found Miles distributing coffee to an elderly couple, locked in conversation with them. There was a smile on his face, one that made MJ half-smile herself. It'd been too long since she saw the kid so happy. Clearly, he belonged here, thrived off helping those who struggled and hearing their stories. In that way, Miles reminded her of Peter. Both males were most in their element when lending a hand to others who sorely needed it. She snuck up behind the boy and touched his shoulder. The smile on his face widened when he turned around, but for some reason it felt fake, more forced up close.

"MJ, hi! You're here!"

Swallowing, MJ said, "Yeah. You wanted to see me, so here I am. I'm just sorry it took so long."

"It's fine. I just... can we talk alone?"

Curiosity piqued, Mary Jane slowly nodded. The part of her that was naturally reporter-prone was on the edge of her seat. On too many occasions she'd gotten the best scoops on a story from solitary conversations. Miles' request for privacy was hardly newsworthy, of course, but it was of immediate note to MJ. She and Peter had a personal investment in the kid, one that _might_ have arisen out of their shared experience at the rally bombings. Without really knowing why, Mary Jane _cared_ about the kid in a manner that was almost maternal.

"'Course. Lead the way."

Movements terse, Miles made for the stairs. On the upper level of the shelter, he picked out a random, unoccupied room for their purposes. A pang rang through MJ at seeing the specific room Miles had chosen. May Parker's office... The place was practically untouched, still with Peter's childhood drawings dutifully and lovingly tacked onto the cork board. MJ could almost imagine that May Parker had never left, that maybe she was lurking just outside, ready to walk in at any moment.

Miles shut the door with a click, voice dropping to a whisper. "Weird things have been going on, MJ. Things I can't tell my Mom about. She'd freak."

"What's wrong?"

"I..." Miles' thick eyebrows twitched together, nearly touching. His forehead creased in thought. "...I don't know how to explain it."

"Try," requested Mary Jane, intrigued.

As if on the lookout for extra eyes, Miles turned in a circle, hands stuffed in his pockets. Shyly scuffing his shoes, Miles stopped his pivoting. There was a pregnant pause between them, Miles too hesitant to speak, and MJ unwilling to interrupt should he start. Eventually his eyes flickered towards the ceiling.

"Maybe it's just best if I show you," he muttered, and with that Miles jumped an impossible seven feet, twisted in the air, and attached himself to the ceiling.

Mary Jane's face was blank, but inside she was a torrent of thoughts and emotions. Her first reaction was denial, to doubt her own perception, to deem whether she was dreaming or not. Confusion was next. No, she was very much awake and in her right mind, and yes, this was really happening. Miles was like a mirror image of Spider-Man in that pose, minus the getup. After all these years of seeing Peter perform similar feats, one would think that she would be used to it. On Miles, though, the abilities suddenly seemed all the more surreal.

"...How?" MJ managed to get out.

"I'm not really sure myself," Miles admitted. His next words were faltering, as if he felt foolish just by speaking them. "There was this spider, and it bit me. Could just be a random correlation, but-"

Something occurred to MJ, and she raised a hand. "Wait... wait wait wait. Was the spider black by any chance, with a red forty-two written on its abdomen?"

"Um, yeah, actually. How did you...?"

"A story for another time. Shit. Just get down from there before someone sees you. I can't talk like this either. It's too weird."

Sheepishly settling to the floor, Miles offered her an apologetic smile. "Cool, right? You can't tell anyone, though. I think I know now why Spider-Man has a secret identity."

MJ didn't need Miles to explain himself. The information was readily available on his face. He was scared, scared of being like Spider-Man, scared of someone taking advantage of a crisis, scared of being carted off to a place like Oscorp. MJ resolved to herself right then and there that the same thing wouldn't happen to him. She would keep this boy safe, with her life if she had to, though it wasn't worth much.

"You can trust me, Miles."

* * *

 ** **TheDailyBugle:**** If you've been living under a rock, be sure to read our take on the current situation with Oscorp and the Mayor, written by none other than one of our best reporters, Mary Jane Watson.

* * *

In notes, logs, and general paperwork, they referred to the subject as _"SM-1"_. It was a carry-over from Sable International's own unique code for Spider-Man, popularized in the same way that "GR-27" came to be known as "Devil's Breath" by lab technicians. Miles Warren was quite fond of the name. It was a simple designation, easy to remember, and most importantly it was appropriately dehumanizing in his own mind. Sometimes, when writing up reports, Warren even forgot that Peter Parker was a person that existed. There was only SM-One.

SM-One was a fascinating but frustrating case. Every attempt to learn something substantial seemed to be foiled by some unforeseen or unavoidable factor. The fMRI trials, for example. Yes, they were getting valuable and informative scans, but the interference from the restraints was proving to be a nuisance. Unfortunately, given the nature of the subject, they were a necessity that he had to make do with.

He and Dr. Sanchez were collecting data every day, but the important information, the things that Osborn kept pushing for, remained shrouded in mystery. The key to SM-One's unique healing factor was elusive, but Miles retained faith in the fact that it was more replicable than any X-gene mutation of a similar strain. If only they had more time...

Osborn's demands provided an opportunity, however. During a full-body scan early on in the study, Warren came across something interesting, something that the subject itself might not be aware of. There were small structures in the forearms of the subject, organs that resembled silk glands, underdeveloped and nonfunctional, but there nonetheless. It appeared that SM-One's relation to the Araneae order was more than skin deep, and beyond mere strength and senses.

If he could stimulate these vestigial spinnerets through surgery or gene therapy, then observe the healing process up close, he'd be killing two birds with one stone. Osborn's stipulations would be satisfied, and so would Warren's scientific inquisitiveness. And so, it came to be that a makeshift brachioplasty was scheduled for that afternoon. Pushing down his own trepidation, he sent for the subject.

* * *

 **PhilChang:** Norman Osborn: I have a very particular set of skills. Skills I have acquired over a long, shady career in business, science, and politics. Skills, that make me a nightmare for people like Spider-Man.

 **Reply from DZombieDragon:** If you let Spider-Man go now, that'll be the end of it, Norman. We will not look for you, we will not pursue you.

 **Reply from Corisan:** But if you don't... we will look for you. We WILL find you... and we will kill you.

* * *

Peter quickly learned what the lights meant. Pavlovian conditioning wasn't exactly rocket science. It took about twenty-four hours to garner the basics. They all had an association, and Peter had been trained the hard way to heed their hidden messages.

Blue was the default setting, on for ninety-eight percent of the time. It had no other significance as far as Peter could gather. Red was meant to ward him away from the door before meals, a blaring warning to _"STAY BACK"_. Green always followed red, encouraging him to come forward and find whatever food they'd left for him. Out of all the coloured lights, green was the only one that put him at ease. Even blue offered no assurance. It felt sinister, like an azure eye, staring straight at him as he slept.

White was the worst of all. Peter had mentally dubbed it the _"ELECTROCUTION IMMINENT"_ colour. During one of his early meals, when he'd still been a tad too cocky for his own good, Peter had approached the slit where they slid the food. He'd known that this area was where the main entrance must be. The slot, while open, might've been a weak spot, a place to get a grip and tear at the bottom threshold. What he _didn't_ know was that there would be prompt consequences for that kind of behaviour. The shock that accompanied the white flash had left him in fits for a solid minute. Needless to say, he was a lot more careful after that.

He'd learned how to be helpless, too. Whenever the white light came on for some fault or another, he was reduced to curling up in the corner, waiting for the inevitable discharge, whimpering occasionally. It wouldn't have been as bad if it was always so punctual, but no. Sometimes he had to _wait_. The white light would watch him, pulsing, patient, unpredictable. Then, out of nowhere, the pain would start.

No more did the walls open to reveal the hidden windows that Peter knew were lurking just out of sight. After his stunt with the glass, Peter doubted that they would _ever_ expose the windows again. Truth be told, Peter didn't know where that strength had come from. He'd wanted to save Sable, but under his noble intentions there was an uncontained rage. Peter dreaded to know what he might've done had he escaped.

He thought about Sable a lot in that time. Was she OK? Last he'd seen her, she hadn't been in the best shape. Why the hell did she have to go and do that? They didn't even _know_ each other. Hell, he'd thought she'd hated him at one point or another. Guilt tore at his insides constantly. This was all his fault. He couldn't have another woman die for him, not again.

 _"Your rescue of Osborn despite his hatred... it affected me."_

A flash of red burned into Peter's eyeballs, bringing him to attention. Submissive-like, he backed into a corner and away from the wall that served as a concealed entry point. Instead of food, however, a thick gas entered the white room. Panic paralyzed him, and his jaw instinctively snapped shut. Peter had grown to hate sleep, to accurately expect that should he fall unconscious, he would wake to an even worse condition. However hard Peter tried to hold his breath, the rising panic roared at him for air. He succumbed sooner rather than later.

By now Peter was more than used to the gas, and what it entailed. The lightheadedness passed into an overwhelming urge to lay down, and if he resisted it, he tended to leave sleep with a bruise or lump somewhere on his person. The Parker-stubbornness compelled Peter to at least try and resist. He collapsed to his hands and knees and stayed there, heaving. As his endurance dwindled, he keeled over onto his side.

When next he woke, Peter found himself maskless and in a supine position. Hours, minutes, or days could've passed without his knowing, and he'd be none the wiser to which. Still sluggish, he tested his limbs and realized that they were unsurprisingly restrained. Strangely enough, he couldn't see beyond a black film in front of his face. Oh god, had they blinded him? Permanently disabled his sight to make him more docile? That fear was put at ease when he perceived that he was simply blind-folded.

Someone was moving around the room. Peter perked his head to the side, listening intently to their footsteps. Heavy, but not so heavy, masculine, but not too bulky. The harsh tinkling of glass indicated that the person was fiddling with something, a flask, maybe. Or a syringe. Or a chainsaw. Peter's mind started to run amok with the gruesome possibilities. Something fell to the floor, and a soft curse followed.

"Professor Warren?" Peter rasped, recognizing the voice. The man must've froze, because there were no further sounds that Peter could pick up. Accusingly, he continued, "I'm right, aren't I?"

Hands passed over Peter's face and pulled the blindfold off. Blinking at the sudden brightness, Peter squinted into the solemn face of Miles Warren. Buried memories from Peter's college days rose to the surface, happy memories that were painful in hindsight. This was a man whom he'd trusted once, whose advice he'd cherished. Now, all of those fun experiments and fatherly moments felt fake and bitter to the taste.

"Norman told you, did he?" guessed Warren.

There was no answer forthcoming from Peter. Seething with betrayal, he instead shot back, "I can't believe you would do this. I thought you were _better_ than this. But I guess I was wrong." It wasn't enough to say just that. His building disgust burst the dam of respect that he'd once held for Warren, and out poured a flood of repugnance and obscenity. "This entire time you've been an asshole. That class on ethics... what a crock of shit. Do you even care what they've done to me?! What _you've_ done to me?! You're a snake, Warren, except you're worse than Osborn. _Slimier_ than Osborn. At least Osborn is doing this for his son, or so he thinks. What the _fuck_ is _your_ excuse?! You're a lying jackal, and I hope for humanity's sake that you never have access to another lab again."

A silence swelled between them, broken only by Peter's panting. The isolated nature of Peter's stay at Oscorp hadn't lent itself to much human interaction. His rant had been a sort of cathartic release, a way to vent his frustrations and direct them at an individual who was at least partially responsible for his treatment. Although the words would probably end up escalating Peter's situation, he couldn't find it in himself to recant them. They were true words, harsh, perhaps, but honest. Besides, it'd felt good, and at this point Peter would take pleasure wherever he could find it. Warren appeared to chew over Peter's tirade for a while, expressionless, before suddenly snatching up a scalpel.

"You know, Parker, I was _going_ to put you under for this, but now that you've gone and pissed me off..."

"Stay the fuck away from me," said Peter, showing no fear as Warren approached him.

Like a wordless statue, Warren leaned over Peter's left arm and set the blade of the scalpel against it. Peter shivered from the cold touch of the metal. Starting from just below the wrist, Warren pressed the point into the skin, then drew it downwards. His hands were steady and slow, and the stroke was straight and succinct, carefully avoiding any arteries. Blood welled up along the line, and although Peter drew in a sharp breath, he said nothing.

It wouldn't have been so bad if that was the end of it. The succeeding cut was deeper and left Peter gasping. There was a delay at first where he felt nothing, a state of shock that left his nerves numb. He was hot, burning up, then blindingly cold. An unconcerned Warren continued in his work, while Peter squirmed in silence. He wouldn't give Warren the satisfaction. He could take it; he'd dealt with worse on the street.

Whatever willpower Peter might've had crumbled when Warren put his slimy fingers inside the incision, lifting tissue, digging through flesh. The pain was sudden and blaring. It blocked out everything else. Bits of his body that had never before been touched were exposed to the air. It was wrong. All wrong. Peter screamed and swore at him, straining against the restraints, wishing he was less weak. It was like a rhino was goring into him, rather than gentle fingers probing at his arm's insides.

The procedure seemed to take ages, the purpose of which eluded Peter, but there were more pressing matters on his mind. He passed out more than once for extended periods, and each time it was a blessing. Unfortunately, some new poke or prickle would bring him back, and the process would begin anew. The agony was all-consuming, impossible to ignore. Looking away helped, if only slightly. If he didn't watch, then he could at least _pretend_ that this wasn't happening, that his muscles weren't currently being used as a plaything. His brain could be tricked, but his body knew otherwise, however.

Warren must've found what he wanted, because eventually the obnoxious digging stopped. He started to sew up the multiple carvings he'd inflicted. It might've been Peter's imagination, but he could've sworn he heard Warren whistling. Shakes wracked Peter from head to toe, and unwilling groans and grunts hissed through his teeth. Relief was his most prominent emotion. It was over. That was, until he realized that Warren was eyeing his _right_ arm...

* * *

 **ClarkG:** Some convicts broke into my flat. Stole some food and valuables before my roommates and I were able to scare them off. I can't help but wonder where Sable International was during all this. At least when Spider-Man was around, he was putting away cons by the dozen each day. **#savespidey**

 **Reply from CucumberNinja:** Sorry that happened to you, man. But you have to admit, you and your buds scaring off hardened criminals is pretty badass.

* * *

Norman hadn't wanted it to come to this. Where exactly he first went wrong was a mystery, but it was too late now to turn back. His sins wouldn't be forgiven, let alone forgotten. The only consolation was the slim chance of Harry recovering from his efforts, the opportunity to help a world that didn't understand his mission, but would one day appreciate it.

There wasn't a day that went by where he didn't wish that Spider-Man was anyone else but Peter Parker. Norman had known him since he was a shy kid with glasses, had seen him slowly come out of his shell over the years, and had watched his scientific intellect blossom with interest. As Peter grew, he reminded Norman more and more of himself. More than that, his friendship with Harry brought to mind Norman's early days with Otto, before everything went to hell. Harry and Peter, like two peas in a pod. Back then, Norman remained convinced that those two would change the world.

When Harry fell gravely ill, Norman tried to reach out to Peter, to bring the boy under his wing. Unfortunately, Parker had a tendency to push people away. He never seemed to fully trust Norman. In the end, with how things turned out, Norman supposed that that suspicion was warranted. It still stung, though, especially to see him under the employment of the competition.

 _Nothing_ was working. All Norman had succeeded in doing was keeping his son alive, but just barely. Harry was in a permanent state of stasis with a sort of proto-symbiote as life support. It was living, but only in the most technical sense. At this point Norman was so desperate that he'd try just about anything to save his son. At the same time, though, his obsession with Spider-Man predated Harry's sickness. Ever since he saw Spider-Man for the first time, he'd known in his heart that he was special, a worthy subject to be studied. It was the closest thing to destiny that existed, although Norman hardly believed in such things. If Norman was being honest with himself, then his motivations for his current project were only half about Harry, but were no less noble in his own eyes.

Time was running out. The quarantine and the protection it offered could only last so long. Not to mention, the people were getting restless. He'd received threatening calls, and he had no doubt that if New York knew the confidential location of where he kept Spider-Man, he would have full-blown riots on his hands. Norman's team was learning a lot, but their progress on possible practical applications was moving at a snail's pace. Once, Norman considered the potential of a symbiote project bonded with Spider-Man, or at least his DNA, but thought better of it. His priorities mustn't stray, not when time and resources were so limited.

Norman had managed to swear Sable to secrecy, at least until she was out of the city. His control of her didn't extend to her own country. Ideally, the politics in Symarkia would keep her distracted until he was done. The last thing he needed was an early exposure of what she'd seen to the press.

Thoughts on Peter and his son, Norman entered one of the various laboratories at the facility he'd supplied for his research team. Dr. Warren was there, as well as Peter, strapped with metal bindings to a steel table. He was wild-eyed and writhing, pupils dilated to little pinprick points that sought out Norman immediately upon his entering. In contrast to the lab's usual level of sanitation, there were streaks of blood all over the surface of the table, mostly concentrated on Peter's left side. It was a scene that Norman wasn't exactly _pleased_ to see, but at the same time, it didn't particularly alarm him.

"He's awake?" Norman asked, somewhat surprised that Peter wasn't sedated. He would've thought that Warren would prefer him that way. Less loud, more cooperative.

Warren didn't look up, eyes downwards as he laboured. "I think so. He comes and goes."

"Norman?" Peter croaked. His voice was hard and harsh, as if from shouting.

Compelled by habit, politeness, or perhaps guilt, Norman told him, "I'm here, Peter."

"Why a-are you doing this, really?" he demanded, and Norman leapt at the chance to defend himself, to justify it all.

"It's Harry. I never told you, but... Harry's really sick. It's the same thing that killed his mother. I knew... I knew that if I didn't do anything, he'd be dead within the year, maybe even a few days," rambled Norman. Warren passively absorbed his raving, an uncommenting spectator. "I put him into intensive care, used every experimental method I could to cure him... But it's not enough. Maybe, with you, I can _fix_ him, and if I can't figure something out now, then maybe the money made from the-"

"It's ALWAYS about money with you, Norman!" an all-too-alert Peter yelled, eyes flashing open in anger. "The truth is, you didn't give a damn about Harry until you almost lost him!"

Shocked at his audacity, Osborn opened his mouth but was cut off by an even louder Peter. Even Warren stepped back to escape the range of his vocal cords. "DON'T LIE TO ME. DON'T YOU DARE. Harry told me everything, Norman! After his Mom died, you dropped him like a hot potato! He was never good enough for you! Never smart enough! It was always pressure, pressure, pressure! He _knew_ you were disappointed in him, and that hurt him more than any damn disease. You were a BAD DAD Norman, and torturing your son's best friend to save him isn't going to change that."

It hurt because it was true. Norman had never meant to be cruel, or to alienate his son, but he'd felt like his potential as an Osborn was being wasted by his after-school pursuits. The boy never took things seriously enough, and Norman sometimes wished that he were more like Peter in that regard. As unorganized as Parker could be, he was also brilliant, which was more than Norman could say for his environmentally-minded firstborn.

True or not, Norman would not stand for this. He was the CEO of a major, cutting-edge corporation, and the mayor besides. This man-child, this fucking _freak_ couldn't criticize his parenting, couldn't speak on things he knew nothing about.

In a blind fury, Norman lunged for Warren's tray of instruments, pushing the stunned scientist aside. An irrational glee settled over his mind, and an unconscious smile perked on the edges of Norman's mouth. _This_ would shut him up. Using a tool for cauterizing, Norman began to burn his bare chest in a deliberate pattern, branding him. Chilling screams choked the air, but they were like a soothing song to Norman's insulted ears.

* * *

 **AN: Aside from a few commenter cameos, "SausageAssassin" and "CucumberNinja" were suggested by HaywireEagle -shruggles-  
**

 **The spinnerets/organic webshooters thing... If that bothers you, don't worry. Assuming it even WORKS, Peter will absolutely NEVER use them for various reasons (inconvenience, memories, etc.). Probably. This is just an excuse to insert some good-ol'-mild body horror lol.**

 **Peter's rant at Norman is partially based off Harry and Norman's relationship in the comics and the Hostile Takeover prequel novel to the game. Also I lowkey tried to foreshadow Green Goblin.**

 **I didn't mention this before because of possible/ _perceived_ spoilers, but yes, Dr. Sanchez and Warren are from the comics (and there is a Miles Warren easter egg in the backpack collectables). They're both slightly different here. Also I couldn't resist that "jackal" line, even if it was a bit ham-fisted.  
**


	8. Child's Play

**AN: Heya! Hope your holidays are going great so far. Skiing was amazing f'me. Shorter update but hEY, the last was longer so no complainin' y'hear?  
**

* * *

 **Child's Play**

* * *

Muffled rumblings and clangs permeated the subway car as it passed over the rails. The sounds of the subway were oddly soporific for MJ. She'd forgotten just how convenient and even comforting the subway could be, when it wasn't too busy. In other words, hardly ever. As luck would have it, though, she and Miles had managed to snag a secluded car for themselves. The only other passengers with them were a pair of women, quietly engaged in conversation in the corner. With her car still out of gas, this was the fastest way to travel.

Miles scooted closer to MJ, dropping his eyes to the floor. If MJ didn't know any better, she would've thought him interested in the random wrappers rolling around the carriage. The kid was nervous, that much was evident. His toes kept tapping, and his knees would twitch at odd intervals. Without a second thought, MJ wrapped an arm around him to squeeze him tightly to her. Embarrassed or not, Miles didn't object.

"Where are we going again?" he whispered.

Following his lead, MJ lowered her voice. "A place Robbie tipped me about a while ago. An Oscorp place. Its construction had some suspicious delays, and it was pretty close to where the Sable caravan carrying Spider-Man was last spotted. We have no proof, but..."

Miles finished for her, "It's worth checking out?"

"Yeah... you're coming along because I'm not letting you out of my sight, and maybe, just maybe, your powers might be useful."

"I'm not sure how," confessed Miles slowly. "I'm not even sure how they work, to be honest. They're still..." A puzzled look overcoming his face, the boy drifted off. Miles may not have elaborated, but MJ had an inkling of what he wanted to say. In the beginning, Peter's spider powers had been weird and wonderful, eerie but exciting, scary but spectacular. It would take time for Miles to get a grasp on his abilities, if they were indeed a non-temporary condition. So far, MJ had every basis to believe that the powers were permanent, just like Pete's.

 _Peter..._ _I wish you were here right now. You'd be way more qualified to deal with this,_ she bemoaned. It was a practical plea, but one impelled by a broken heart.

Fixing her ponytail and removing some red hair from her face, MJ turned to talk to Miles some more. Her voice barely rose above a mumble, mostly drowned out by the subway's natural soundtrack. "Tell me more about how you've used them so far. Don't leave out any details."

The words came pouring out. Clearly, Miles was relieved to finally have someone to speak about these things aloud, and be believed at the same time. "I've climbed walls a lot. That was how I first figured it out, that something was off. I touched something, a soup bowl I think, and it just... stuck. Had to smash it, cut up my hand a bit, but not bad. Then everything started to go insane. I could see things, _hear_ things... I'm _still_ hearing things, and every once in a while I get these tingles out of nowhere that just make me want to duck or curl up."

"Anything else?"

"M'pretty sure I have super strength. Just yesterday, I was walking to F.E.A.S.T. from scrounging up some supplies and came across two cons." MJ gasped to herself, gaze hardening, but before she could comment Miles plowed onward. "It wasn't the first time I'd ran into a pair of prisoners. I can take care of myself. But this time... It was different. Child's play. I could see their moves coming from a mile away, like slow motion or something. Two grown men, too easy..."

Taking a steadying breath, MJ said, " _Please_ tell me you at least hid your face."

"Well, I was wearing my hood up," defended Miles meekly.

"...That's better than nothing I suppose. The spider, where is it now?"

The change in conversation made Miles flinch, shoulders hunching. "Squished," he said sheepishly. "Sorry, I slapped without thinking-"

"No, no it's OK. It's better this way," murmured MJ absently. So long as the spider was accounted for. The last thing they needed was an army of spider-people roaming Manhattan...

A silence settled between them, awkward but companionable at the same time. MJ knew that in a few more minutes, they'd reach their stop. After that it was a hike of a few blocks to get to their true destination. Was Peter there, hidden away from the world in plain sight? MJ didn't want to get her hopes up. Even if he was there, what could _she_ do? Nothing. Absolutely nothing except send a child in after him, which was something she absolutely refused to do.

 _In the_ moment _we might be useless,_ _but if we find him, maybe New York can do the rest_ , MJ reminded herself.

"Peter's in trouble, isn't he?" Miles asked suddenly, his voice a shaking squeak.

At first MJ showed no signs that she'd heard, but then, slowly, her eyes closed. If she kept them open, they would undoubtedly tear up. She could always lie, but what was the point? The boy was too smart to fall for that again, not when she'd kept brushing him off about it. If anything, persistently putting it off would just worry Miles _more_. The topic of Peter was sorely in need of addressing, but MJ couldn't bring herself to spill his secret. Instead, she told the truth in its most basic but integral form.

"Yes..."

Just then their train came to a stop, screeching and squealing through the tunnel. MJ got up to go to the doors, an open-mouthed Miles trailing behind her. Now that they were around other people, also piling out of the subway, Miles was forced to keep his inquiries to himself. They moved with the flow of the crowd, funnelling out of the station and into the open air. Miles stuck to her side like glue until they turned onto a street.

Mary Jane walked faster, heart tugged towards the Oscorp records building she could see peeking through the rest of the concrete jungle. As they got closer, she was able to get a better view of it. It wasn't particularly impressive. In fact, it was fairly typical, and definitely didn't scream "secret prison" to her. But there was something about it... something calling to her. It could've just been her imagination, but MJ couldn't help but hope. Their fellow pedestrians broke off one by one, going about their days in other directions. MJ made her approach, fists at her side.

"What kind of trouble?" Miles finally demanded, catching up when they were out of earshot of the others. "Did Sable International detain him, too? I thought they'd stopped hassling civilians."

Ironically enough, Miles guess had landed right on the money. Peter had indeed been taken by Sable International, but not for the reasons Miles assumed. In any case, what Miles didn't know wouldn't hurt him on that front. It was the perfect excuse, and one MJ immediately appropriated to take advantage of. She neither confirmed nor denied Miles' supposition, letting him believe what he liked.

"Right now, the best thing we can do for him is help Spider-Man," said MJ shortly, striding up the steps.

The building wasn't that tall in terms of New York standards, but it seemed to tower over them. It made MJ nervous, bringing Miles this close to Oscorp, but the real risk was minimal. She had to remind herself that Norman had no reason to suspect that Miles had spider powers, or anyone else for that matter. _No one_ in New York knew. So long as they kept their cool, and acted as non-confrontational as possible, they would stay out of trouble.

What struck MJ the most past the doors was just how _bright_ the interior was. Inside, a secretary stood up from her desk. She was a hard-eyed woman, mousy-haired and severe in the face. MJ could already see that she would be giving them problems. Behind the desk there were elevators, all with signs to ward people away for being _"OUT OF SERVICE"_. Clearing her throat, MJ came up to the woman. _How to lead, how to lead..._

"Hello, Mary Jane Watson-"

"I know who you are," the secretary said stiffly, cutting her off. "The Bugle reporter. Get out. This Oscorp facility is currently closed to the public, and journalists especially."

"Well then, who _is_ allowed in?"

MJ's challenge was unwittingly answered when two Sable agents exited one of the elevators. They were engaged in a conversation that faded as soon as they saw the intruders. Stiff-shouldered and with backs straight, they advanced on MJ and Miles. Of course. The doors were unlocked to allow Sable agents to come and go, while the records building itself was a front. _"Out of service" my ass_ , mentally huffed MJ, thinking back to the elevators. She craned her head around the uniformed men, greedily eyeing those elevators. There was no way she could make it. Maybe Miles could, but to ask would be out of the question.

The left-most one laid his hand on his holster. "Are these two bothering you, Miss..."

"No no, we were just leaving," hissed MJ, turning on her heel. She knew a pointless plight when she saw one. The battle was already lost, but the war was only beginning.

The agents unnecessarily escorted her and Miles to the doors, practically breathing down their necks. Other than trembling once or twice, Miles maintained his cool. MJ admired the boy's bravery. He was so young, but he'd already survived terrorist attacks and the abuse of martial law. After making it out, she and Miles scampered down the stairs and around a corner.

"Well that was _slightly_ worth it," MJ sighed to herself, biting her bottom lip.

Tongue-tied in his excitement, Miles blurted out, "He's there. I know it."

Not necessarily disagreeing, but skeptical all the same, Mary Jane pressed, "How could you possibly _know_ that?"

"I... I don't know. I mean I _do_ know, but I don't know _how_ I know."

"You've lost me."

He clumsily elucidated, "It was a sort of feeling."

An amused grimace passed over Mary Jane's face. His enthusiasm was a pleasant callback to the fire of her prime as a high school reporter, but it was groundless. The snippets of evidence that MJ had obtained were better than even the most accurate of gut instincts. She was about to gently inform him that she couldn't act simply on "feelings", but then something occurred to her, something that should've been obvious to her in retrospect. _Could it be...?_ "A feeling? What kind of feeling?"

"A kind of tingling, back of my head, then my whole body. The only other time I felt it was when I was fighting those cons. It was almost like... I could _sense_ where their moves were coming from, and just now, it was almost like I could sense-"

"Spider-Sense," said MJ abruptly, staring into the distance.

All at once it'd clicked. This was what she'd hoped for when she'd decided to bring Miles with her. Somehow, Miles and Peter... they were on the same "frequency". It was a leap, but one that checked out. Years of living with Peter had taught MJ to trust his spider-sense above all else. Unlike most things in life, it rarely failed. This confirmed it. They'd found him. Tilting his head, Miles tried to meet her eyes.

"What was that?"

"It doesn't matter. I believe you."

"Oh, good. Glad you don't think I've gone crazy," Miles rambled in relief. "But uh, how will this hold up in the newspaper? Will your boss even let you publish-?"

"Screw that. We need to start a witch hunt," MJ snarled. "I'm tired of the system. I tried it, and it's too slow. If we rally enough people, they'll throw themselves at Oscorp, and then..."

Miles seemed to get the idea. It wasn't the smartest of plans, but if they pulled it off right, it could be the most efficient. The combined pressure from the public and the ending quarantine might make Osborn cave. His public image was bad enough without Sable agents shooting at civilians on his own company's private property. A barely-contained grin twitched onto Miles' mouth, one that MJ mirrored for a moment.

"I'll call up some of my friends."

* * *

 **StormCity: -embedded link-** So we're all doing this, right? **#savespidey**

 **Reply from Hamae:** Hell yeah. Heading over right now, soon as I heard.

 **Reply from doodlerooniee:** WoOT ABOUT EFFING TIME. I've been waiting to throw myself at Sable douches since this started.

 **Reply from Clark_G: at Ibenson** You better show up bro.

 **Reply from Ibenson:** -puts on sunglasses- I'M IN.

 **Reply from** **Silverj0:** Oscorp won't know what hit them.

 **Reply from BobMartin:** Can I bring any firearms?

 **Reply from KeeganK** Too far, man. Let's not accidentally kill anyone on Spidey's account.

 **Reply from LuzSynder:** I'm here to kick ass and save Spider-Man, and I'm all out of ass.

 **Reply from LuzSynder:** Wait

 **Reply from anexistentialcrisis:** Literally dying.

 **Reply from LuzSynder:** Let me try that again

* * *

Peter drifted in and out of consciousness. His mind was like a sea, and he was the boat, sail-less, paddling in desperate circles. The shore was out of sight, the boundary of reality indistinct. It'd only taken them an eternity, but they'd finally drugged him, though not for his own benefit. Drugs were a necessary precaution to transport him back to a cell, which was where he was now, unless he was mistaken.

Sometimes the white walls shifted into scenes, memories. If Peter squinted hard enough, he could make them out a little more. He liked the illusions. They were a welcome distraction from... everything else. He hurt. All of him. The drugs might as well be Tylenol for all the good they did, and Peter had a feeling that their purpose was moreso to keep him compliant and passive than it was to numb the actual pain.

His hand moved up his abdomen and to his torso, lightly, fleetingly grazing over one of the culprits. A scar on his shoulder, surprisingly neat considering the messy circumstances of its making. _"SM-1"_. It stared at him, mocking. _SM-One, that's you. That's_ all _you are anymore._ Out of everything else, Peter prayed to God that this at least wasn't real. Touching it sent an all-too-tangible spike of pain up his chest, into his neck, and out his mouth in the form of a groan. It wasn't healing nice, wasn't cleaned right. _Risk of infection,_ his mind moaned at him.

Although he was dazed, the possibility that the scar would never heal laid heavily on Peter's thoughts. It was less of a possibility and more of a certainty, actually. He'd have it forever, a constant reminder of what'd happened. SM-One. Forever. Out of all the insults Norman could've chosen, this was somehow the worst. Peter felt like he was about to puke.

Shuddering, Peter moved his head to take in the walls. He was half-asleep again, on the verge of senselessness. His eyes flickered and suddenly he was somewhere else, somewhere safe, at a time and a place where he had loved ones looking out for him. Protected. Innocent. Sheltered.

 _Peter sniffled as Aunt May swabbed his knee with the alcohol. He was a smart kid for his age, and thus offered no protest. Germs led to infection, and infection made small injuries worse. He'd read it in a textbook somewhere. Knowing that it needed to be cleaned didn't make it any less agreeable. As the sting faded away, Peter perked up and wiped at his eyes with his sleeves, pretending he'd never been crying at all. Perceptive as she was, May wasn't fooled for a minute, but flattered him anyways with a pat on the head._

 _ _Uncle Ben had bought him a bike not two days ago, a two-wheeler, shiny, red, and_ fast. _It had twenty-one gears, a whole three gears more than that Thompson kid's. Unfortunately, Flash wasn't too keen on being upstaged, and Peter still wasn't the most experienced rider. His inexperience collaborated with Flash's foot to send Peter flying head-over-handlebars, unable to avoid the obstacle. For a while he'd wept on the pavement before scurrying home. Ben had retrieved the bike for him later, while May had taken up the responsibility of dealing with his wounds.__

 _ _Peter was just glad he hadn't cracked his glasses. Glasses weren't cheap, and his guardians weren't made of money. He also took some satisfaction in the bruise he'd seen forming on the other boy's foot. Flash wasn't exactly the smartest kid in Queens, hadn't thought his petty plan through. Karma was sweet, even if bullying was bitter.  
__

 _His Aunt praised him, pulling him out of these thoughts. "Such a brave little man."_

 _"Band-aid, Aun'May. Don't forget the band-aid!" Peter reminded her impatiently. This was no time for compliments, not when he was in desperate need of medical assistance! May obliged with a fond snort._

 _"The Star Wars one?" she guessed._

 _"Yes, yes."_

 _With dainty fingers, Aunt May withdrew a packaged band-aid from the box. She peeled away the outer wrappings to reveal a design of C-3PO on the front, then discarded them in the trash. A happy wriggle moved through Peter in a wave, starting at his toes and ending at his arms. C-3PO was his favourite droid._ _ _Tiny droplets of blood pricked through Peter's scuffed skin, but were shortly covered by the strip of Star Wars._ She placed the band-aid on his kneecap and smoothed it out with the utmost carefulness. It stuck fast. Utilizing all her medical mastery, Aunt May had nursed the fallen warrior back to health at last._

 _Beaming, Peter threw his arms around her neck and buried his head into her shoulder. His tears had long since dried. His Aunt was warm, in more sense than one, and she smelled like good cooking, like_ home. _Arms like pillows cushioned his frail body. She whispered in his ear, voice doting but serious._

 _"No matter how big the boo-boo, Ben or I can make it better..."_

"But what if you aren't around?" Peter muttered aloud, lucid and intelligible to all but himself. Not that anyone was listening. He was alone.

As hard as he tried to forget it, the pain returned. Fire laced through him, this time concentrated in those upper limbs that Miles Warren had been so keen on cutting. Deep down, Peter had known more than most how cruel people could be. To see it up close though... At least in the streets, he could fight back. In the lab, he'd been _helpless_ , laying there, forced to take it. Scooting back against the wall, Peter tucked his knees to his chest. He brought his mangled, stitched arms to his face and buried his nose between them.

A single sob echoed throughout the emptiness.

* * *

 **AN: Peter is still mourning, and I didn't want you guys to forget that. So here -throws- have some pain c'; On that lovely note... Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed. Replied to as many as I could!  
**

 **More commenter cameos (mostly AO3 this time around). Some of you asked to be included, while others I just wanted to include because I liked your name/your words were nice -shruggles-. Same rules apply: if you don't like my use of your pseud, let me know and I'll remove it promptly C'X**

 **The red bike is a random reference to the motorbike Pete buys and paints red in the Stan Lee days. Not really important but IalwayslikedthatbikeOK.**

 **We're getting really close to the end here so be sure to leave your thoughts in a review! They keep me motivated more than anything else. I honestly, love y o u. So much. Can I internet kiss you, please? Mwuah. -keses-**


	9. Mixed Emotions

**AN: Wow late update. Apologies, but all of my fics _might_ have slower updates until April, just because of this semester's MASSIVE workload eep.  
**

* * *

 **Mixed Emotions  
**

* * *

"Holy shit, dude," muttered Ganke.

Miles winced at his friend's side. Spread out in front of them was the Oscorp building that he and MJ had visited earlier. At the time it'd been relatively vacant, save for some Sable agents. Now, the place was packed. Picketers lined the lot, hoisting up signs, red in the face as they screamed. Overlapping chants made their words nigh-incomprehensible, but there was a sort of unity to their choler, the kind that got you immediately invested in their cause. His eyes searched for MJ, but if she was here he didn't see her.

Minutes after he and MJ had located Spider-Man, Miles had taken to social media with their newfound knowledge. At first it started with him and a few close friends who were easy to convince. Then, the theory picked up traction. It moved throughout the ranks of his high school like a wildfire, then up to any adults following the students' accounts. Those who were skeptical were subsequently reassured by MJ's similar posts. Since the start of this whole disaster, Mary Jane Watson had become quite a household name for the city of New York. Alongside J. Jonah Jameson's podcast, she'd been a voice of reason and hope. Her experience and recent exposure as a trusted reporter lent legitimacy to the premise. Those who might've dismissed it gave it a second thought upon her vouchsafe.

Soon enough, plans were made online, and people started amassing. They took to the subways, carpooled, or just plain walked. The Empire State University population jumped on board forthwith, of course, but the activists weren't restricted to college folk. New Yorkers from _all_ walks of life gathered to show their support of Spider-Man. Even some stranded tourists made an effort to join in. During their short, scary stint in the city, the wallcrawler had thoroughly won them over.

Only now was Miles truly observing the fruits of his labour. It felt like he'd been gone for a few hours at most, but the results were undeniable. Aside from their numbers, the sheer emotion of the mob was what truly struck Miles. They _cared,_ they _really_ cared. Spider-Man was more than just an anomaly to them, more than a celebrity phenomenon to draw in tourism. In some aspects, New York relied on him, recently more than ever, and now was their chance to reciprocate.

Inspired as Miles was, he had to admit that it was a bit much. The crowds he'd attracted through his initial social media posts had him a bit taken aback. Wetting his lips, Miles finally found the words he needed. "I know. It's... extreme."

"Extremely _awesome_. Let's get in there."

Bracing themselves, the two teens forged a path through the horde. More than once they were nearly separated, though their joined hands kept the other close by in the sea of bodies. Miles frequently caught glances of the script on some of the signs. The generic _"SAVE SPIDEY"_ was fairly common, but sprinkled throughout were particularly biting proclamations. Osborn was almost always the target. There wasn't a police officer in sight, strangely enough, but some Sable agents swept through in shifts to try and keep the peace. It was to no avail. The people wouldn't be dispersed.

As Miles forced himself closer to the doors, he finally realized just how serious the situation was. Shattered glass sprinkled the steps, and the empty, metal frames of the doors gaped wide open like wounds. A dozen or so individuals were already inside, with another half-dozen twitching on the floor. Miles identified the taser-like gun in an agents' hand as the culprit. Aside from the breached entryway, the lobby was almost entirely cut off. Sable agents ringed around the elevators in a protective half-circle. Nothing could pass them, though that didn't stop a few foolhardy demonstrators from trying. For the most part, they tried to stay out of reach of the agents' fists or weapons, dancing away from strikes, scowling and shouting.

Sable International's methods had never been especially humane, but they were less so now that they were under direct attack. Unthinkingly, they lashed out at anyone and everyone who crossed them, regardless of age or gender. Even Miles and Ganke weren't exempt from the desperate cruelty. A buzz at the back of Miles' head prevented him from receiving a blow to the same spot from the butt of a rifle. Miles ducked, dragging Ganke with him until they lost the roaming mercenary. What little restraint remained luckily prevented the soldiers from taking lives, only prisoners. More-than-likely, they just wanted the lot and building vacated. Serious injuries would only worsen the scene, and fuel the fury rolling off the insurgents.

Something snapped in Miles when he spotted a Sable agent beating on a boy, only slightly older than Miles himself. Seventeen to eighteen, tops. There was aggression on both sides of the spat, and for all Miles knew the civilian had instigated it. Whatever the cause, the altercation was clearly one-sided. The boy was severely outmatched, bruised, and bloodied at the nose and mouth. Miles immediately, naively identified him as the victim. It was more of a slaughter than a fair fight. If there wasn't so much going on otherwise, Miles was sure that someone else would've come to the young man's aid. Right now, though, he would have to settle for _him_.

 _CRACK!_ Stunned at his own strength, Miles stepped back and cradled his fist to his chest. It didn't hurt. Far from it. In fact, it was the _lack_ of pain that frightened Miles, and the absolute power behind his blow. Visible breaths from the still shape that was the Sable employee served to reassure Miles. "Wow, sweet hook, kid," started the guy, but Miles was already gone, weaving through the throng to find Ganke again. Along the way, he came across a second Sable agent and repeated the process. No one saw him this time, luckily. His tactics were more guerrilla-like, in and out, a swift fist to the face before a hasty retreat. When he left, the Sable agent was only slightly trampled by the protesters, until some good Samaritans had the decency to pull him off to the side.

This wasn't just about Spider-Man anymore. It was pent-up frustration from being bombed, infected, forced from their homes and imprisoned in their own city. Oscorp was just an easy scapegoat. For a second, Miles wondered with dread at what he'd unleashed. Then, thankfully, that fear fled.

Miles found himself swept up by the energy surrounding him. The mood was electrifying, energizing. He felt like he was a part of something bigger than himself, something that could absorb him and Ganke away altogether. As it escalated, so too did Miles' sense of moral elevation. It was utter chaos, but while half of it was horrifying, the other half was _right_. Under the violence and anger, there was a deep-rooted _love_ , for a lack of a better word. These people wanted Spider-Man. They were here for him just as much as they were here to revile and rebel against the mayor, and they wouldn't leave without him. It was the only peace offering that could possibly placate and satisfy New York.

And it was only a matter of time until they got him.

* * *

 **CaffeineDelusion:** It's nuts out here. Be safe if you're passing by, keep your kids at home. **#antiosbornrally**

* * *

From his fortress of the main Oscorp headquarters, Norman Osborn watched the madness unfold. He was far away from the "ground zero" site, for a lack of a better word. On the other side of town, to be precise. Tucked away in safety as he was, Norman couldn't help but be deeply affected by the images he saw on-screen. Even when he turned around, the audio from his flat-screen continued to clamour at his ears, demanding attention.

 _"LET HIM GO, LET HIM-"_

 _"SAVE, SPIDEY. SAVE, SPIDEY. SAVE-"_

 _"As you can see, Phil, New Yorkers have arrived en masse to protest the imprisonment of local vigilante, Spider-Man."_

Norman changed the channel, and was instantly met with the same scene, just from a different camera angle. Sneering, Norman surveyed the droves, these ungrateful upstarts who'd dared to rise up against their devoted mayor, after everything he'd done for them. How quickly they forgot that it was _he_ who supervised the creation of the antiserum, and that the study of Spider-Man was just as much for _them_ as it was for him. The live footage sickened him. All he saw was unbridled self-righteousness, no, _selfishness_ , for themselves, and for Spider-Man. The whole world was his enemy. They'd sooner doom his son to death than deal with Spider-Man's absence.

His son may be a disappointment as Peter had suggested, but he was the last thing Norman had left of Emily. He couldn't lose him too, not after Em. It simply wasn't an option. Norman wouldn't be able to cope. He'd crumble completely. _God, please not Harry._ Everything else had been taken from him. His best friend and business partner, his wife, his company's prestige, and before long, his mayorship. Harry was all he had left, and Norman was willing to sacrifice whatever resources he could scrounge up to save him.

A dull chill of horror caused Norman's insides to freeze over, as if some inner part of himself was balking from the rest of his body. For a single, transient moment, Norman Osborn experienced the stirrings of shame. A face swam to the surface of his thoughts, twisted in agony and betrayal. SM-One, Spider-Man, no, _Peter Parker's_ face. He remembered the tool grasped tightly in his grip, the shivers of skin that somewhat marred his spelling. Not even Parker was exempt from the lengths Norman would go. Jesus, what had he done?

 _What was necessary,_ some part of him hissed. _Always what is necessary._

The inward disgust was quashed as soon as it arose. It died down into pathetic whimperings, whimperings that sounded like Parker, whimperings that he stamped into bloody stains. Whatever weakness that might have held him was long gone now, squashed under his shoes. Norman's hearing was snagged by the broadcast once more, and he forgot the catharsis altogether.

 _"Circulating rumours claim that this particular tower is the site of Oscorp's "Spider-Man Project". The rumours originated on the internet, and as of yet are unconfirmed-"_

His finger twitched against the remote, flicking through channels again. A brief buzz and fleeting flash anticipated each transition. At last, he landed on something new, but no less unsettling.

 _"We are just outside Lincoln Tunnel, folks, waiting for official confirmation from the President to cease the quarantine. Since early this morning, the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services has deemed the city more-or-less ready to be opened for direct relief efforts, relief that the people of Manhattan Island sorely need. The only projected danger to rescue parties are infected animals, but I've been told that more antiserum is in production as a precaution. Volunteers have begun treating popular pigeon roosts with an airborne version of the chemical. All that remains are orders from the government for Sable International to step down from their posts..."_

The reporter's speech drowned into obscurity. It became senseless sound, a messy background of noise that Norman tuned out. He turned off the television. It was over. The last thing he needed was the Avengers swooping onto his property. As far as vigilantes went, they were as volatile as they came. They'd make even more of a mess out of an already terrible situation. The time had come to cut his losses.

Feeling as though he were signing his and Harry's own death sentence, Norman speed-dialed Captain Austin. The Sable agent answered gruffly, as professionally as he could given current circumstances. After his greeting, the first thing he did was seek advice. " _Mr. Mayor. What do you want us to do about this? My men can't keep this up forever without casualties._ "

"Release protocol." The words were like two anvils, weighing a ton each. He heaved them through his throat, propelled from the air in his lungs. His teeth clenched together, lips curling defiantly, as if fighting their escape. Too late. There was no taking back this order. He and the Captain had discussed this possibility before, and the corresponding code, but Norman had never wanted to say it so soon.

" _Understood, sir_."

* * *

 **PaulineB: -embedded link-** Oh sure, NOW the cops show up.

 **Reply from Alna:** I for one am GLAD they took their sweet time. It was hard enough dealing with Sable out on the "front lines". Those guys are savage.

* * *

 **SMFan9321:** It's happening, guys. They're bringing him out. **#savespidey**

 **Reply from** ** **Cupayydon** : **The power of the people prevails.

* * *

Since the "surgery", Peter had been undisturbed, left to his own devices in the cell. Said devices weren't much more than pacing, napping, and moaning. His forearms were on fire, and his shoulder still seemed to smell like sizzling skin. This was the longest period of time that Peter had been unmolested. He simultaneously hated and relished the isolation. Recovering in peace was the main pro, but the cons... they were just as terrifying as the alternative.

In this insulated state, Peter's mind would start to wander. He wasn't seeing things anymore, thank God. The hallucinogenic visions had passed within the first half-life of the nameless drug. No, it was worse. He hardly felt _alive_ like this, let alone human anymore. The best he could do was retreat into his arachnid instincts, to deaden the human emotions that hurt more than they helped.

The spider-side of his personality screamed for some secret shelter, a secure place to rest and tend to his wounds, but it could not be assuaged. There was literally nowhere to hide. Just a white room with various active cameras covering every scare inch.

Peter was sick of white. The colour was forever tainted for him. White walls, white coats, white light that promised pain... It was everywhere. Suddenly the white spider on his chest felt nauseating to see. He'd changed into his costume as a comfort mechanism, nothing more. Although his anonymity was in tatters, there was a certain reassurance in the mask, one that Peter wasn't quite ready to relinquish.

A quiet rumble roused Peter from his pained stupor. He perked up accordingly, tense, alert. _Doors_ , he realized, and as soon as the thought struck him, he remained convinced of its reality. There were doors moving in this place. There _must_ be more doors, since he knew from experience that there was more than one cell. Before he could puzzle over it too much, the tell-tale hiss of gas replaced the distant rumble.

Mentally swearing, Peter shrank back, mouth stubbornly seized shut. He wasn't doing this, not again. If he was physically able to suffocate, he'd choose that option instead of dealing with yet another sadistic episode with Warren or Osborn. His worst nightmare was waking up back on that table, staring up at another scalpel or some other sick instrument. That shit that happened back in the lab? That sucked ass. _Never again._

Minutes ticked by, with no passage of air either from or into his trachea or nasal passage. Eventually and inevitably, however, the patient process of carbon dioxide poisoning made him lose his breath. After that, it was only a matter of seconds before he inhaled. The world went hazy, and Peter's equilibrium was thrown for a loop. Stumbling, he leaned against a wall and punched until his legs could no longer support him. Each punch was savage, driven by desperation, shredding sheets of metal and rending through layers of concrete. By the time he began to faint, his knuckles were bloodied and there was a cavernous scar running through the wall.

Like a child throwing a tantrum, Peter choked out a frustrated cry as he collapsed to his knees. It wasn't fucking _fair_. He tried his hardest and it still wasn't enough...

* * *

 **ClarencEX:** I'm streaming this, guys.

 **Reply from MothersManchildMistake:** So is the news. No one cares.

* * *

Miles Warren cornered Benita Sanchez in their main lab as she was in the middle of clearing out her stuff. Valuable equipment got carefully stowed in boxes by Sable agents, while she took charge of handling the more delicate data. Though her eyes occasionally flickered towards the man in the doorway, her focus remained on the multiple flash-drives and discs that needed to come with her. Tissue and plasma samples came next. One by one she wrapped the individual phials in insulating material, then laid them side-by-side in small crates.

Nothing could remain behind, not while the location was compromised. Osborn seemed confident that the civilians would disband after they received SM-One, but Dr. Sanchez wasn't so sure. Assuming Osborn's prediction was accurate, the threat of a police search still loomed over her head. Sooner or later, someone would draw up a warrant, and then she'd truly be screwed. All the files needed to stay out of the law's hands, lest they could link her to the project.

"This isn't over," Warren said simply.

She paused, brushing back black locks. They didn't speak much, her and Warren. They were colleagues, and they respected each other, but even before the project, their interactions had been few and far between. How many years had they passed one another in Empire State or some other academic institution with nary a wave? Of course, this project had made communication a necessity, but it was always work or science-related, and never personal. Something about Warren made Sanchez shudder. It wasn't that he was a creep, exactly. It was a vibe that he shared with Osborn. Both men had a drive that was admirable but worrisome.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, that we don't have to start from scratch in some new, secret location. Yes, all the logs and material will have to be moved... but that's not _all_ of it." A shallow breath preceded Warren's next statement. Sanchez listened quietly, letting him speak without interruption. "There was... something else I was working on. It was something I always wanted to attempt, but never dared to do. I was afraid I wouldn't have the resources for it, or that I'd be arrested. Ever since the subject first entered the scene, Osborn has given me that chance. And now..."

Sanchez prompted, "And now... what?"

"I need _your_ help."

" _My_ help?" she repeated incredulously. Miles Warren was a prideful man, so this wasn't something that came easily to him. Sure, he'd asked for her help before, but their studies of the subject had been more-or-less separate. They were independent researchers, collaborating when it best suited them, but ultimately interested in disparate aspects of the organism.

"Yes. Your help. I happened to be at your conference a few weeks before the attacks on City Hall. What I heard... it intrigued me. Your theories about aging and telomeres specifically. Something tells me that you're further along than you were letting on." Before she could reply, his bespectacled eyes pierced her like a stake, holding her in place. "Am I right?"

"I have a prototype device," admitted Sanchez quietly. "It works on mammals, but only one way. I might be decades away from manipulating age in the opposite direction, but I have no doubt that one day, I will do it. I _will_ crack the code on immortality."

"That's not what I'm interested in. Can you or can you not manipulate age?"

His dismissal confused Benita, but she scrambled to speak nonetheless. "To a point, yes. I can increase the rate of maturation, then turn it off. I've programmed batches of mice to grow twice as fast until puberty, but I don't see how that has anything to do with Spider-Man."

One of Warren's nails scratched at his moustache, soothing some unseen itch. He frowned, saying, "It doesn't. Or I guess it does, but only in the loosest sense."

"I'm not following."

Lazy-like, he rolled his eyes. "I'm assuming you've read some of my articles."

Heat rose indignantly in Sanchez skin at the presumptuous insinuation. Genius or not, Warren had some nerve. Just because there was an overlap in their respective, niche fields, didn't mean that she worshipped the ground he walked on. ...But damn it if he wasn't right. "Yes, I'm familiar with your work."

He started to pace, half-rambling to himself. His hands swayed at his sides, a clipboard-bound folder clutched tightly in one. "Then you know that my specialty is in two areas, of which genetic-grooming is only one. The first is the reason Osborn brought me on, and the second is what convinced him to _keep_ me on. Yes, I've had some success in splicing human and animal genes, but nothing like Spider-Man. Not even close. Imagine what we could accomplish if we kept him longer? But since that _isn't_ an option..."

As though he were relinquishing the holy grail itself, Warren reluctantly passed her the folder that he held. He grimaced, as if the action pained him, and Sanchez received it dubiously. With an almost flippant air, she flipped through the file's interior documents. What she read was nothing short of shocking. So _this_ was what he'd been hiding in his second laboratory... Sanchez couldn't decide if she was appalled or awed, but ultimately the awe won out.

"A living backup?"

As soon as she requested the confirmation, a smirk slipped onto Miles Warren's lips. "Two, actually. Viviparous, of course. I already have a volunteer. Test-tubes are too tacky for a first trial. I need to speed up the development, and then slow it down before there's risk of a threat, assuming they survive."

Sanchez swallowed as she returned the papers to Warren's open, expectant palms. "...This... actually might work. But should we even consider it? Haven't we done enough damage to our reputations? To our careers? To _him_ _?_ "

"Only if our identities and contracts with Oscorp leak," an indifferent Warren corrected her. "And "damage" is a relative term. At the end of the day, what have we got to lose?"

* * *

 **AN: I'm pretty sure Ganke doesn't show up in the game, because the one friend of Miles we see really doesn't look a lot like Ganke, and is only referred to as "Friend". My hc is that he definitely exists, though, and thus he's here. He can be the friend in the game or someone else, doesn't matter, up to your imagination ^^**

 **My other headcanon is that everyone who has ever commented/reviewed, whether their usernames made a cameo or not, are in the crowd during this chapter.**

 **So yeah, sorry that this took so long to get out. I've been busy with Uni work, but also I've been addicted to Kirkman's Invincible comic. Binged it. Twice and a half times. What are you even doing here, reading this? GO read Invincible, RIGHT NOW. I promise you won't regret it.**

 **Hopefully I haven't lost too many readers. Let me know if you're enjoying it! -huggles-**


	10. Petty Matters

**AN: Not a lot of talking in this chapter! Expect many narrative-heavy emotions. As always, if you see that your username has been appropriated for the fake social media feed, and you're not cool with that, lemme know! -heart-  
**

* * *

 **Petty Matters**

* * *

 **FEAST_Shelter:** Today we mourn many losses as the **#DevilsBreath** outbreak subsides, including our own **May_Parker**. She represented the best of NYC.

* * *

Miles hadn't been counting on all the waiting involved in remonstrance. There was a lot of standing around, avoiding other protesters' feet, and ignoring the insistent rumbles of his stomach. Since the spider bite, Miles appetite had shot through the roof, barely sated by the dwindling supplies provided by FEAST and his home storage. As the sit-in dragged, Miles became more and more antsy. If he'd known, he would've asked his mother to pack him and Ganke a lunch. No, wait, scratch that idea. If his Mom knew what he was doing, she'd definitely freak.

Struck by the image of his mother sitting at home in paralyzing worry, Miles peeped at his phone. Service was spotty at best, and his phone battery was down to twenty-five percent. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, the lack of bars hadn't stopped Rio Morales from sending two texts to her son. A quiet tone announced the arrival of another message. It popped up, dominating his screen before Miles swiped it aside. Make that three texts.

 _'Oh my God Miles please tell me that you aren't out there'_

 _'Miles? Answer me right now'_

 _'Please be safe'_

The note of resignation in the final message made Miles reconsider his little endeavour. Then, Miles remembered Spider-Man, a man he'd admired for most of his life, and now, the only man who could possibly understand his plight. Without Spider-Man, Miles was alone. He imagined the man hunkered in some cell, or strapped to a table, or, or...

Shit. For now, this was more important than his mother. Nevertheless, Miles typed up a response to placate her, thumbs trembling.

 _'Will do. Love you Mom.'_

Most of the danger had run its course, so Miles had no misgivings about sending his Mom that reassurance. Everything had died down. Strangely, the Sable agents had largely disappeared from the scene. The few that remained had backed off to the building, standing as stoic sentries at its entrance. No one had the audacity to approach them—not anymore. Shouted slogans were still common, and everyone was as resolute as ever, but there was less aggression overall. The lack of violence was a welcome change. Miles wasn't too keen on protecting anyone else. The dense crowd was a blessing when dealing with the Sable agents, but it was also a disadvantage. Miles didn't want to draw needless attention to himself, even if he'd kept a lid on his super strength earlier.

Up until this moment, a police presence had been distinctly absent on the premises. Thus, the demonstrators had been forced to brave Sable brutality single-handedly. Miles could've resented this fact, but instead, he saw a bright side to the hands-off approach of the police. If the police showed up, who would they be logically, legally obligated to target? Not the sanctioned Sable agents that were _supposed_ to be there, but the rowdy protesters on privately owned, corporate property. Perhaps the police had _planned_ it that way, had hung back intentionally, occupying themselves with the rampant crime wave rather than the Oscorp situation.

Whatever the reason, the police had joined the party at last after much delay. The person in charge was an Asian woman with a weathered face, not four metres away from Miles. She stood confidently, but there was also a stoop to her shoulders that would go unseen by most. Her badge glinted dully over her leather jacket, and the murmured conversations of her comrades confirmed her to be a captain. Overhearing them was a cinch with the aid of Miles' keenly attuned hearing.

Now they were in the waiting game, which while more boring, was still anxiety-inducing. No one was certain of what would happen next. Doubt shrouded the square and clouded human faces. Would their presence accomplish anything at all? Was Osborn biding his time? Miles had no idea if Spider-Man would ever see daylight again. For all he knew, the superhero had accidentally died long ago in a lab, and Oscorp could be just covering up the casualty by stalling.

Then, suddenly, something happened.

Ganke's and Miles' heads shot up as the sidewalk rumbled beneath their feet. There were a number of sounds all at once—the creaking of a metal door and gears, the purr of a beefy engine, rubber rolling onto pavement. Two giant doors swung open like a cellar hatch, opposite to the tower's entrance and off to the side. Miles stared, amazed as a silver Armoured Personnel Carrier roared into the open air. To put it simply, the ground nearest the tower had converted into a garage.

"Step back!" an agent announced, and his booming buddy answered, "He said step _BACK!"_

The people closest to the vehicle parted from it as it backed up, while the rest remained paralyzed. Miles detected an equal measure of suspense and stereotypical, New York standoffishness. They were obdurate, but submissive. Sable weapons were nothing to sneeze at, and the APC was virtually a tank. It was too intimidating for smirks or jeers, and yet not enough to send them away, screaming with their tails between their legs.

Presently, the APC had come in peace. As it parked, Miles took the opportunity to take a closer look at it. Like all Sable vehicles, it was made up of a mixture of blacked out windows and pale panels. The white paint was pristine, clean to the point that it practically shimmered like silver. Glowing blue lights lined its running board. If not for the wide-set tires and the turret overtop its carriage, one could almost call it beautiful. There was a deadly elegance and efficiency to all Sable equipment, to be truthful. This APC in particular had an extra large back-end, not unlike a trailer attached to a truck for transporting livestock, although this one was inbuilt. Miles' mind grazed over this inconsequential detail until his mind literally _tingled_ in protest.

What had Mary Jane called it, that time when she thought he hadn't heard? _'Spider-sense'._ Miles liked the sound of it, though he liked the literal feeling of it less so. The sensation was a strange sort of itch—irritating but informative. He couldn't _know_ for certain what was contained in that compartment, but he could make an educated guess.

Miles wanted nothing more than to rip the doors off of the APC, or to tip it right over. Impatience welled inside him like the water behind a dam, but just as his barriers were about to burst, two Sable agents took action. The doors were unlocked and flung aside hard on their hinges. A chilling, metallic squeal rent through the concourse. Straining on his tip-toes, Miles stole a glance into the agape back-end of the APC.

Darkened though they were, the striking tones of blue, red, black, and white were unmistakable.

There was Spider-Man, somewhat slumped, curled in a corner, clearly only half conscious, and recovering from some ailment or other. The man came to quickly, shrinking from the sun, sticking to the shadows that the Sable unit offered. There was silence, briefly broken by the obnoxious flash of a phone camera and the disapproving grumbles that accompanied it. Everyone was enraptured by the slightest sound or the subtlest signal of life. Spider-Man stirred, shifted, and half-stood, but remained in more-or-less the same spot, swaying warily in place.

A Sable agent advanced with a stun gun, probably with the intention of putting a stop to Spider-Man's stalling. He didn't get far. The throng spotted the stalking figure and swiftly swooped him away, swallowing him whole. His surprised scream was stifled in the sea of civilians. The threat, though short-lived, had ceased, calmly culled by the crowd.

Once upon a time, in his chronic browsing of YouTube, Miles had come across the release of a wild, rehabilitated tiger in Russia. Watching Spider-Man now brought back that memory with a potent bout of déjà vu. He remembered the tiger withdrawing from the outside world, muzzle marred by a snarl, retreating into its crate until it gathered the courage to venture out. It was like seeing it all over again. Spider-Man was the tiger, too terrified to leave his hellish haven and brave the humans around him, but desperately desiring to do so.

Lenses blinking disbelievingly, Spider-Man stepped into the sunlight. He stumbled down a short ramp. An anonymous cry from the front was soon taken up the rest. The police captain had looked like she was about to say something, but someone else had beat her to it.

"Give Spidey some space!"

"Yeah, give him some space guys!"

"You OK there pal?"

Someone brushed against Spider-Man by accident and he slunk away. After that there was a bubble of at least three feet around the wall-crawler that no one dared to breach. It was maintained constantly and with the utmost conscientiousness. By some unspoken rule, Spider-Man transformed into an untouchable. A respectful air followed him wherever he went. Other eyes hounded his movements with suspicion or unease. Miles was in the former camp.

As he passed Miles' location, Spider-Man paused. There was a period of stillness in which Spider-Man's gaze sought out his. He was like an animal whose perked ears had picked up on some other creature. A predator, rival, trespasser, or a fellow friend, perhaps. It was impossible to tell.

In spite of himself, Miles shivered. They'd locked eyes for little over a second, but somehow Miles knew that Spider-Man's lenses had stabbed straight through him. The way Spider-Man had automatically picked him out... there was more than remembrance there. Had he felt it too? The tingling? The tugging? Did he dismiss it? Miles wasn't able to entertain these thoughts for too long.

His movements were pained and halting, each muscle tense. Placing his back to the people, he clambered quickly up the APC, with many a fretful pause to peer behind him. No sooner had he perched on the APC did Spider-Man fling himself from it, assisted by a running start. A single, deceptively strong strand of webbing was sent into the atmosphere. It connected at the nearest building, barely in view. His audience let out involuntary gasps as Spider-Man swooped low. It didn't take long for his altitude to climb.

Spider-Man's lithe, flexible, and fragile form shrank from sight. The Captain's frowning face followed him for what felt like an eternity. All Miles saw was the tiger headed for home, sprinting as fast as her striped legs could carry her. He never even heard the cheers.

* * *

 **BradDavisQB:** I need a drink. Who else wants to get a drink? **#savespidey**

 **Reply from fruitcocktailSamurai** : I'M DOWN, but only if you're buying!

 **Reply from TheShinySnivy:** What's this nonsense about drinks? We're going to be stuck here for hours! The subway will be backed up to a ridiculous degree.

 **Reply from BradDavisQB:** Aren't you a spoilsport.

 **Reply from TheShinySnivy:** Just saying.

 **Moonlit_Chronicles:** WOOHOO we did it! **#RESIST**

 **E_Reed:** Spider-Man is finally freed. Fucking awful that he was in that situation in the first place. Never buying an Oscorp product again. Maybe it won't help, but it'll make me feel better.

 **Cladnplaid:** Maybe now that Spider-Man is back our police force will finally be effective again.

 **Reply from Silverjo:** Correction: Spider-Man practically IS the police force.

 **ARocks21:** VICTORY. SCREECH.

 **fruitcocktailSamurai:** This celebration feels premature. Did you guys even see him? Dude was shaking in his suit. Didn't even say thank you.

 **Reply from NicolaReed:** Y'know, I wouldn't say he was shaking from the vids, but he was definitely jumpier than usual.

 **Reply from MusicalPancakes77:** Well no kidding. Who knows what happened down there.

 **Reply from seireidoragon:** You're right. He doesn't have justice yet, but it's a start.

 **Mara_C:** I couldn't be prouder of how we all pulled together today. Sure, a lot of it was sitting around, but it seemed to be the pressure Osborn needed.

* * *

" _It's done_ ," Captain Austin told Osborn shortly before the connection was lost.

Lowering his head, Norman made his way to the secret portrait-entrance to his home lab. Harry looked so healthy and full of life in the painting, his youthful face captured and rendered perfectly by the artist. Nothing like what he looked like now... The portrait was one of his most cherished possessions, but what lay behind it was his pride and joy. It slid away in his presence to show a small console built into the wall. Norman placed a hand on the number pad, and when he'd gathered himself, punched in the date of Harry's "departure".

Active blue screens and LEDs were the primary sources of light, but the lab still felt too dim. An aisle of custom spider enclosures lay alongside a large, metal box that bulged into the lab, except it was less of a box and more of a tank. Norman's approach automatically caused the metal coverings to retract. What they revealed thrust Norman's heart into his throat.

Green light replaced the blue light, filtered through the sifting of a strange dark liquid and a sickly human shape.

Husky-voiced, Norman said, "Hello, Harry."

His son and an experimental strain of symbiote had shared this tank for the past seven months. Those months had not been kind to the younger Osborn. Even with the proper nutrients he was emaciated. All of Norman's efforts could not stop the gradual, debilitating degradation of muscle density. Gone were the red locks that so much resembled Norman's own. Being bald had aged Harry's appearance considerably. Norman had to remind himself that there was a twenty-three-year-old man in there, _much_ too young to die, and with so much to offer the world if properly guided.

"We were _so_ close," Norman swallowed. "But I'll keep trying. I... I _will_ find a cure..."

Norman's gaze strayed, seeking out some subject that wouldn't hurt nearly as much. His eyes landed on the line of specially engineered spiders. Each arachnid was housed separately, and each was unique. It'd been a pet project, literally, ever since Spider-Man became a phenomenon. The progression of Harry's illness had sped up the process of cross-breeding and human gene-splicing. Spider-Man's capture had rendered them irrelevant, and now, with Parker gone again...

This project was supposed to pay dividends, but instead it had crippled his company. Oscorp's public image was in the trash, not to mention Norman's formerly-spotless reputation as mayor. The citizenry that he'd protected so diligently had sided with the _superhero_ instead of they leader _they'd_ elected. He'd deigned to their demands, rolled over like a dog, defeated. The city would soon be expecting a resignation, regardless of his compliance.

Staring at those spiders sent shockwaves of revulsion coursing through his person. Something came over Osborn, staring at those spiders, something he hadn't felt since he'd lost it at Parker in that lab. It was more than revulsion; it was resentment, or worse, hostility. Before Norman knew it he was watching his body move. His hands grasped the edge of a terrarium and heaved. Every component shattered outwards with the wave of glass, including the small spider inside.

Despite his attempt at disassociation, Norman was indisputably occupying the driver's seat. He still had control, but something in his impeccable psyche had snapped. _You killed my son, Spider-Man_ , it snarled irrationally. _Not me. If I can't make amends, it's_ your _fault. You never gave me the damn chance._ He strode to the next enclosure, filled with the fantasy that he could see the crouched spider shaking inside. That enclosure fell too, then the next, and the next. Osborn could've sworn he saw Harry flinch once out of the corner of his eye, floating and unconscious though he was.

Norman finally flipped the last tank, though his frustration would only fully die with the surviving spiders themselves. Chunks of glass crunched in his ears. He counted each corpse, crushing arachnids underfoot when he came across a hint of life. Some of the dazed creatures scuttled for cover; they never got very far. Eventually, all eleven specimens were accounted for. The soles of his shoes were stained with their guts.

Unfortunately, the spider that most mattered was out there, a free man. Norman Osborn had lost. Miles Warren's gamble was their only shot at salvaging something useful.

* * *

 **doodlerooniee:** If it wasn't for the swinging and the physique, you'd never guess that was Spider-Man. **#AntiOsbornRally**

 **Reply from Tanlefan:** :(

* * *

Facing west, back to the wind, Mary Jane Watson waited.

The day was brisk and the breeze was bitter, but she could care less. With her feet planted on top of her apartment building, she could see so much further. The streets were surprisingly dead for a city of New York's population. Bioterrorism, rampant crooks, Sable policing, and the mass gathering in the Upper West Side had all contributed to the slow emptying of the cityscape. When people _did_ venture out, they stuck to their safe crannies and dodged streetlights. Being seen by anyone, including Sable International, was hardly ideal.

Hunching against a vicious gust, Mary Jane reexamined the social media feed on her phone. As the protest had worn on she'd followed every detail of every update like they were war dispatches from the front lines. For the past fifteen minutes it'd been official: Spider-Man was free.

MJ had stayed behind for a few reasons, but the foremost one in her brain was seeing Spider-Man in that setting. The square was currently choked with civilians. Hundreds of literal eyes would be on Spider-Man at every second, scrutinizing and analyzing. If Peter were to see her, could MJ trust him to ignore her until she was safely out of sight? To pretend he didn't know her? Could she trust _herself_? Postponing a potential reunion with him _right in front of her_ was a risk she just wasn't willing to take. Should MJ or him slip up and show too much emotion, the consequences could be disastrous. Calamitous. Cataclysmic.

Mary Jane had a habit of sometimes cycling through synonyms when she was nervous.

There wasn't a doubt in Mary Jane's mind that he would show up here first. She knew him too well. After his release he'd be all alone. He'd instinctively seek out familiar faces, friendly settings, and comfort. That was his usual ritual following any significant hardship. Since he was homeless, the next best location to find that consolation was either at F.E.A.S.T. or here, at MJ's apartment. On a normal day Peter might've chosen the shelter, but seeing how that was the building his aunt had passed away in... He probably wasn't ready to return. So it would follow that he would come here.

Her conscience was a battleground where guilt and elation vied for dominance. By throwing New Yorkers at armed agents, she'd abused her power, and all for the sake of one man. MJ hoped to hell that no one was hurt, though there was no limit to the extremes she would embrace for Peter. All that truly _mattered_ was Peter. How could she have forgotten that for even a moment, never mind six months? In hindsight, their small spats, petty disagreements, and his overprotective hovering felt like trifles. At the time they were both flawed, looking to learn from their mistakes like any sane couple-

A noise to Mary Jane's six stopped her reveries. It was a two-fold sound, like the shuffling stumble of steps. Hardly able to keep her heart beating at a steady rate, she pivoted a full one-hundred-eighty degrees. A person was there, and presumably someone she knew well.

That signature "Spider-Man" posture that MJ was so used to seeing was missing. Proud shoulders sagged forwards, and a defeated slump supplanted the usual straightness of his spine. It was a subtle change compared to the many others MJ could've predicted. He wasn't slouching so egregiously to be unrecognizable, but the metamorphosis was there all the same. The man in the suit and mask was almost a stranger to her.

"...Peter?"

Something in her voice snapped him to attention. Flinching fingers found his mask and lifted it free from his face. Riveted, MJ tracked the mask as it fell, then turned her head to his. She ravenously devoured every unobstructed feature of Peter Parker's visage.

There were many differences, but the one that moved her the most was the stubble shadowing his jaw. An unshaven Peter was a rare spectacle, and although it made enough sense, it was somehow something she would've never envisioned. Norman probably didn't provide razor blades in that place. Too many risks.

His cheek bones were more pronounced, and every part of him screamed "tired". The exhaustion didn't carry over to his eyes, however. Though slightly sunken, they sought out her face with the same starvation as her own. Longing was there too, timid, but prominent. They took a step in each other's direction, drawn by something more powerful than magnetism.

Though the wind still whipped at her hair, MJ was deaf to its howls. It was like her ears were temporarily stuffed with wool. The distance between them seemed to stretch, from a few measly metres to an agonizing mile. A cloud of doldrums hung over their heads, hot and heavy. MJ tried to take a breath and found it much harder than expected. Her lungs took in the humidity and made a miniature electrical storm. Each gasp thereafter came easier, charged, energized.

Peter had always been faster than her, so when she started to lunge, he was already crashing into her. They came together like two colliding trains, MJ's chest caving into his. Clutching her close, Peter cradled her like she was the last person on the planet. She could feel his nose and left hand in her hair, and the tears on her neck. Up close MJ was very aware that he was in sore need of a shave and a shower. There was some sort of strange smell off of him, too, like a faint whiff of burnt meat. Ultimately she couldn't care less. He was willowy and his limbs yielded like bamboo. Soon their knees were buckling.

Now kneeling instead of standing, Mary Jane and Peter held each other for many minutes. The passage of time was unbroken by speech as they quietly relished in the other's presence. In this position they seemed to be a single, small entity. They were a mangled mesh of humanity that shared heat and shivered against the harsh air.

If Mary Jane ever had to let go again, it would be too soon.

* * *

 **Screwball:** Such a heartwarming moment, seeing him swing away in the vids. So glad my **#savespidey** caught on. **  
**

 **Reply from Invincahead** : Welcome back, buddy.

 **Reply from ElizaL** : You didn't do shit **Screwball** **.**

* * *

 _"Welcome to "Just the Facts" with J. Jonah Jameson, today with the highly requested return of a previous guest. On the line I have none other than Mr. Norman Osborn, our soon-to-be_ ex _mayor and human slime extraordinaire. A lot has happened since our last chat, Devil's Breath and Spider-Man the chief among them. We're going to cover all that today, but before I grill into our_ beloved _mayor, Mr. Osborn has something he'd like to say. Go on Mr. Osborn, I'm all ears."_

 _"...Thank you, Jonah. I know I have a lot to answer for, and I intend to do that soon."  
_

 _"I'll believe that when I hear it."_

 _"Fair enough. One thing I've kept to myself is the identity of my former subject-"_

 _"Don't you mean_ prisoner?"

 _"Semantics, Jonah. You'd know all about that, coming from the newspaper business. As I was saying, I've kept SM-,_ Spider-Man's _secret identity under wraps out of an ethical concern for his anonymity. Although I haven't completely changed my stance on that front, I'd like to let New York City know the name of their so-called "super hero", if I may."  
_

 _"You heard it here, folks. Spider-Man's real name, on the air, right now."_ Jonah couldn't keep the eagerness out of his voice entirely. This was what he'd wanted, what he'd pursued, for years. _"Damn it, Osborn, don't keep us hanging."_

 _"His name... is Peter."_

 _"..."_

 _"..."_

There was a pause. Annoyance at Osborn's coyness sparked into the microphone in the form of a cough. Mind racing with possibilities, Jonah pressed Osborn with all his old reporter doggedness. _"No last name? There are plenty of Peters. Hell, I know a few myself offhand."_

 _"I think I'd like to keep that information to myself, so long as Spider-Man stays out of my business, and I his."_

 _"Are you using my show as a platform for_ **blackmail?** _"_

 _"Of course not, Jonah._ You're _the one treating this show like a trial. I assure you that the_ court _will decide if my crimes, if any, are deserving of proper punishment."  
_

 _"Until then, Mr. Mayor. Until then..._

* * *

 **MirandaB: NYCWallCrawler** I can finally name my first born child after you.

* * *

 **Some_Reader:** Fun facts: "Peter" comes from the Greek word for "Stone", and there have been multiple St. Peters. It's a nice and strong name, I think.

 **Reply from Eyes0Pen:** Yeah! He's like New York's rock!

 **Reply from DannyDingleBerry:** No need to overanalyze it, nerds

* * *

 **1Mason1: Peter_Lahey** DUDE ARE YOU HIM?!

* * *

 **Nathaniel_Copeland: NYCWallCrawler** Peter. I like it.

* * *

 **AN: The first social media blurb used to be a direct quote from the game that I edited to sound less clunky.**

 **Sorry for the late update. As I've said before, Uni takes up the majority of my time hhhghh. Please leave some feedback, and thanks so much to everyone who reviewed/commented before! You're the only reason I was able to get this up during the semester.**


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